


Rumour's Harbour

by Skud



Series: Particular Friends [8]
Category: Master and Commander
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-02
Updated: 2009-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skud/pseuds/Skud





	1. Chapter 1

The clear summer sky over the port of Valletta was just starting to darken as two men climbed the narrow streets to their evening's engagement. One was both tall and large, filling and almost overflowing his blue gold-laced coat and pale breeches; his hair, seen under the hat which he wore athwart after the old fashion, was blonde and braided into a clubbed pigtail. The other man was smaller and darker in both features and attire; he wore an old and slightly battered coat, but had at least taken some care with his frilled shirt and neckcloth. Behind this ill-matched pair trailed a handful of men, two in sailors' colourful shoregoing rig and beribboned sennit hats, and two boys in civilian attire carrying musical instruments. The smaller boy skipped along easily with a fiddle in his hand, but the other's steps were belaboured by the bulk of the 'cello he held in his arms.

Captain Jack Aubrey (for such was the tall man's name) had good reason to be unhappy. To begin with, he had not one but two ships, the ill-found _Worcester_ and his favourite _Surprise_, in dock for refitting, and little expectation that either would be completed soon without the assistance of bribes he could not afford; the _Surprise_'s crew were ashore becoming dissolute on the handful of prize money he had advanced them, and attenuated by the depredations of the captains of other ships about to sail from the port, despite his best efforts to keep them occupied. Furthermore, his first lieutenant, whom he loved almost as a son, had been gruesomely wounded in battle and had received no official recognition for it, let alone his long-overdue promotion; the fact that a man whom he had once cuckolded had been placed in command of the Mediterranean fleet and therefore in authority over him might have some connection to the matter. And to top it all off, he had not had any mail from home for over two months. Despite all this, he wore an expression of benign if somewhat florid good humour as he panted his way up the hill.

His companion, the eminent physician and natural philosopher Dr Stephen Maturin, wore an expression which conveyed neither particular happiness nor its reverse; he was not a man to allow fleeting emotion to travel unchecked across his countenance, and except for the quick, observant movements of his eyes, he maintained an expression of steady equanimity.

Despite the doctor's unruffled demeanour, he was quite as happy as his friend to be attending the musical party to which they had both been invited. Valletta was a port town whose main society consisted of English officers and their wives, and there were few diversions beyond the usual round of enormous wine-sodden military dinners. Mrs Fielding, the Italian-born wife of a naval lieutenant currently imprisoned in France, was a lively woman with striking red hair, and her musical evenings, held in the courtyard of her villa under an enormous lemon tree, were appreciated by all who were honoured with an invitation. It would be a pleasant interlude, thought Maturin, and a very light supper would be much better suited to their humours in such warm weather than yet another serving of roast beef washed down with claret.

In fact, supper consisted of nothing more than a glass of fresh lemonade and a Naples biscuit, and he had one of each in his hands when his friend found him standing in a corner of the courtyard. "There you are, Stephen," said the Captain, "Mrs Fielding says it is our turn to play next; come along, step lively!" Stephen quickly put the remains of his biscuit in his pocket, and hurried to take his place.

Jack counted them in with three taps of his foot, and their bows began to dance a lively caper across the strings. Jack stood swaying and nodding in time over his violin; Stephen sat with his 'cello cradled between his knees and concentrated intently on his fingering, his eyes darting between his music and his partner. Quick, dancing phrases passed between them, lightly, like small but precious gifts. Jack glowed with pleasure as he picked up the theme and carried it over Stephen's deeper accompaniment, both instruments combining to fill the courtyard with their song.

They were neither of them particular virtuosi, Stephen even less so than Jack since his hands had been cruelly injured, but long companionship and frequent practice had allowed them to achieve a fine degree of harmony, and as their piece drew to a close there were a few moments' applause from their audience.

They were succeeded by a pianist, and as he settled on his stool and brought out his sheet-music Jack and Stephen found themselves engaged in conversation: Jack was drawn away by Mrs Fielding, who congratulated him on his performance and complimented him on his skill with the bow; Stephen found himself in the company of a handful of civilians, including Mr Wray, the Second Secretary of the Admiralty, who was ostensibly in Valletta to investigate corruption in the dockyards, but unofficially, as everyone knew in this port which leaked information like a sieve, to investigate those very leaks.

Stephen recognised Wray's tall figure and open, animated countenance at once. They had met some years ago in Portsmouth, and although Stephen had not encountered him in person since then, he had been aware of his arrival in Valletta and had anticipated this meeting for some time. They were both of them connected to naval intelligence, and although Stephen, a volunteer, chose not to participate openly in such matters while the Mediterranean was under Harte's command, he was nevertheless obliged to greet Wray with due civility.

Wray returned his bow with every appearance of friendship and said, "I am pleased to be able to tell you that I saw Mrs Maturin at the opera just before leaving London, and she appeared to be very well."

"Thank you, sir," replied Stephen, "and I hear I must give you joy of your marriage, too." Wray had recently married Admiral Harte's daughter Fanny, and now had the means to support himself in the style he preferred; Stephen recalled that he had played very high at cards and kept a carriage despite his meagre salary and lack of private means. Harte and Wray, Wray and Harte, he thought, the cuckold and the card-cheat; surely they formed an uncomfortable alliance of ill-will against Jack Aubrey.

However, Stephen found Wray surprisingly amiable as they spoke of inconsequential matters and gave each other their opinions on the music, the weather, and the lemonade. He had more than half expected a lingering animosity over the incident, many years ago, in which Jack had very nearly accused him of cheating at cards; but perhaps the insult had lacked directness, since Wray had neither called him out nor, apparently, taken any great measures against him through his position at the Admiralty. Yet it was hard to be certain; any of a number of signs might indicate a malignant influence in Whitehall: Aubrey had often been passed over in the distribution of ships, and even now he was frustrated in his attempts to put the _Surprise_ to sea again, and despondent over the fact that his protege Tom Pullings had not been promoted after his bravery in the battle against the Turkish ship _Torgud_.

As if to give the lie to Stephen's thoughts, Wray nodded towards Jack and observed, "The Captain seems to be in fine fettle tonight." Indeed, Jack appeared to have just shared a witticism with Mrs Fielding and was laughing heartily at his own joke. He had been surprisingly merry all evening, in fact, and Stephen wondered at it.

Excusing himself, he bowed again to Wray and joined Jack and his companion, who were standing under the great lemon tree in the centre of the courtyard. "Why, Stephen, I was wondering where you had got to. I was just telling Mrs Fielding the most comical thing; it just came to my mind, and I said to myself, I must remember that and tell Stephen, and here you are. Now I must recall it exactly." Jack's lips moved silently as he lined the words up, then he declaimed: "Ah, that's it: a narrow bow, as any sailor knows, is best for quick movements. Our allegretto! Ha, ha, ha!"

"Sure, you are the very soul of wit, my dear." He had not seen Jack so animated in days, and as he glanced at him he realised the cause of it: Jack's flushed features, his slightly dilated pupils, and above all the way in which he smiled and stood so close to Mrs Fielding were strong telltales. "Well," he said a little sourly, "I pray you will forgive me, but I joined you merely to take my leave. Mrs Fielding," he bowed low over her hand, "I thank you for a most enjoyable evening."

With that he departed, and walked alone through the dark streets to his lodgings, having left his 'cello in the care of Bonden and the boys who had carried it up the hill. The streets were surprisingly quiet, and apart from the distant laughter and cries from the taverns by the waterside the town might almost have been uninhabited. He had no wish for company; he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and contemplated Jack's behaviour.

"Mrs Fielding is no fool," he thought to himself, "Faith, I am sure she can fend off greater importunities than his without the slightest trouble. She is thought a very attractive creature, and by all accounts sailors in port will venture a great deal if they know that a woman's husband is far enough away and unlikely to return. I can only commend her eminent sense in always keeping her mastiff and her maid close by her when she goes abroad; and she could hardly be put to any great difficulty in her own home in the midst of a party.

And indeed she was not, for Jack's heavy step could be heard on the stairs not too long after Stephen had removed his coat, unbuckled his breeches at the knee, and settled down with a book. He had not expected anything else, but regardless of logic he was unreasonably pleased at Jack's disappointment. The instant the thought crossed his mind he was ashamed of it, and had almost resolved upon visiting Jack in his room and suggesting some more music, or some toasted cheese and conversation, when he realised that his pleasure at the thought bore so much in common with Jack's earlier state that he was mortified at his own hypocrisy.

He lay his book down on the table and took up a cigar, rolling the crisp tube between his fingers and appreciating the crackle of the leaves before lighting it. It was a small pleasure compared to the one he contemplated as he sat wreathed in fragrant smoke, but it was a safe one.

* * *

For five slow, tedious weeks Jack attended to the business of his ships' repairs, his frustration growing greater as each day passed. Even the opera, which he attended regularly, and the Italian lessons he took from Mrs Fielding to help him understand it, provided only a temporary relief. He did not much care about the _Worcester_; truth be told he would rather she were broken up for firewood; _Surprise_ however was his chief concern and his greatest anxiety. She did not need much work, simply a few repairs to her structural members and some new copper sheathing, but he was hard-pressed even to persuade the dockyard hands to discuss the midship knees without a considerable douceur, and he no longer felt comfortable throwing around money he did not yet have, as he had done in his profligate youth.

"Damn the dockyards, and damn the bloody Admiralty court," he said to Stephen in the privacy of his room at Searle's. "If I don't hear word of our prize soon, I shall never have the _Surprise_ to sea before the whole ship's company is gone." Indeed, the Surprises had been poached most villainously by any and every captain who put into port; it had been as much as Jack could manage to keep his most experienced hands and his particular followers. Each day after he had visited the yards he went down to the row of dark huts that housed his men ashore, and found fewer of them there; those who were present were invariably drunk, and he had no doubt that they had already run through the prize money he had laid down on the capstan and were now living off the proceeds of the contents of their sea-chests, selling their very shirts for liquor and bawdry.

He was returning to his lodgings one afternoon with a frown on his face, when he heard a hallooing from down the street. "Captain! Captain Aubrey! Ahoy there!" It was Pullings, nearly capering as he approached, and waving a piece of paper in one hand and his hat in the other.

"Why, Tom, what's afoot?"

"The packet came in -- my promotion -- the Admiralty -- I am the happiest man alive!" Indeed, his scarred face was twisted into an ecstatic smile; to any objective party it would have appeared a gruesome travesty, but Jack saw only his friend's joy, and shared in it wholeheartedly.

He clapped Pullings soundly on the shoulder, and accompanied him to the courtyard at Searle's. He saw him sat comfortably, bedecked with his untarnished new Captain's epaullettes, surrounded by friends and with his cup never empty, before going in search of his own mail.

"Stephen, more good news: our Ionian prize is confirmed," he said some time later, as he read a letter from his prize-agent in London. "They may take their time about it, but they get there in the end."

"Give you joy of it, my dear," replied Stephen, thinking of the various forces at work in the Admiralty, and what could be inferred from their actions. "I suppose this means you will be able to hasten _Surprise_'s repairs. Have you anything from Sophie?"

The package of letters had contained several from Ashgrove Cottage, undated and disordered but full of news: the garden blighted by caterpillars -- the childrens' various trifling ailments -- Sophie's sister to have another child -- Diana's recent visit; and Jack sat reading them again and again, sharing passages with Stephen who showed as much pleasure in the news as Jack did. The letters from Jack's lawyers were less cheerful, bringing only news of continued delays and uncertainty, and he set them aside after reading them once.

Stephen had also been favoured with a handful of correspondence, and after perusing several letters from medical men and naturalists of his acquaintance, he lingered over a longer letter from Sir Joseph Blaine. It largely concerned the proceedings of the Entomological Society and recent additions to Sir Joseph's own collection of coleoptera, but a few of the closing comments caused Stephen to read and re-read them, trying to extract additional meaning from the imprecise cipher of Blaine's carefully chosen words. "You will by now have encountered Wray." No further comment, no mention (however oblique) of his intelligence work, and certainly no encouragement to trust him. Sir Joseph's spare phrases confirmed Stephen's initial feelings about Wray: he was as inexperienced as he appeared, and Sir Joseph had no particular desire for Stephen to work closely with him. The penultimate paragraph of his letter was still more interesting: he refered to Stephen's visit to the Institut at Paris, and to mutual friends in that city, and said that "what you told me of the talk at the Institut is now quite well known, though I have not heard it mentioned in London."

Stephen reflected on the rumours to which Blaine referred: he had overheard two men at the Institut, perhaps ministry officials, talking where they thought they were not overheard; they had been commenting on Stephen's choice of friends -- particularly Adhemar de la Mothe, a known sodomite -- and on Stephen's probable similar interests. They had no proof, of course, because there was none to be had, but it had caused Stephen some distress to think that anyone might suspect him of such vices: not for any moral reason, but because he had presumed that he was better able to hide his inclination. As it happened, nobody had found the truth of it but La Mothe, whose degree of perception regarding Stephen's attachment to Jack had been unexpected, but whose understanding was not unwelcome.

When he had returned to London he had informed Sir Joseph, in the briefest way, of what he had overheard; he would not wish his superior in the naval intelligence service to hear it from anyone else. He was pleased to discover that Sir Joseph took the matter lightly, did not appear to give much countenance to the idea itself, and thought it quite a splendid addition to Stephen's cover: the less reasons for the French to take Stephen seriously, the better; and as Sir Joseph had pointed out, the mere suspicion of buggery could do him far less harm than any suspicion of spying.

Yet the spread of the tale had probably been too little, too late. When he had been a prisoner in France soon afterwards, the questioning had been uncomfortably pointed, and although they had not found anything specific to pin on him, they had had some very solid suspicions. Could the rumours have any useful effect now? Perhaps, he thought. The French intelligence services were more numerous even than their English counterparts (Stephen had seen evidence of at least three different French departments at work here in Valletta) and their interdepartmental jealousies were notorious; even if one department had direct information of his intelligence work, the others might still be fooled by the reports. No, he would not look at a Greek horse bearing gifts, as Jack had put it the other day: any camouflage, however slight, was a blessing.

* * *

_Surprise_'s repairs proceeded apace, now that there was money to encourage the shipwrights; yet even with the best intentions they could not have her ready in less than two weeks. Those two weeks saw Jack happily busy again, hurrying back and forth between the port offices to the yards at what, for him, was a sprightly pace; his natural cheerfulness was restored in full, and it wanted but news of a ship for Pullings and an end to the legal wranglings at home to make him completely happy.

The _Surprise_'s crew, too, were buoyed up by the prospect of going to sea again, and while they drank no less, at least they made a more respectable show each afternoon when they mustered. Each day Jack set some drill or activity to keep them busy and clear their groggy heads, and as _Surprise_ neared completion their enthusiasm for small arms practice, boat races and cricket, and for the chance to compete against other ships and "do the old barky proud", increased.

From time to time Stephen would be taken out in the gig or the jolly-boat, where he would indulge in an afternoon of bird-watching or collecting specimens. The flora and fauna of Malta were well known to him, and he sincerely doubted there were any discoveries to be made, but at least he might have the opportunity of seeing some of the less common creatures to be found in the area; leisure for naturalising was so uncommon that he was determined to make the most of it before they sailed again.

He and Bonden were alone in the jolly-boat one afternoon, hove to in the Lazaretto creek, just under the walls of Fort Manoel. Stephen had his glass trained on the little egrets nesting near the walls of the fort, while the coxswain took his ease, leaning comfortably against the gunwales and chewing a wad of tobacco. "I'll never understand how you can tell them apart, Doctor," he said, with a nod toward the distant specks of white flying around the fortifications.

"With no more difficulty than you can tell a topgallant-spanker from a... from all those other blessed names you give everything," replied Stephen without taking the glass from his eye.

"Why, doctor, we give them perfectly straightforward names. Even you should be able to tell a crow-foot from a goose-neck."

"Barrett Bonden, I believe you are making a jest of me." He put down his glass and turned to the coxswain, who was indeed turning pink and making small choking noises in admiration of his own wit. "Oh, for all love, leave off. I know I am a great object of ridicule to you all, but," he said rather sourly, "not everyone has the benefit of a sailor's extensive education."

Bonden's good humour immediately vanished, and when Stephen observed it he immediately said, "Oh, I am sorry, my dear; I did not mean to imply..." He was all too conscious of the fact that Bonden had only recently been taught to read, and wished he might retract his ill-thought comment. A moment's thought provided him with an idea, and with great politeness he said, "Bonden, I would be greatly obliged, I would deem it the most signal favour, if you would undertake to teach me some of your nautical terminology."

As soon as Bonden had finished exclaiming and had composed his mind to the idea of educating the excessively learned doctor, he set about the task as if he were talking to a newly-pressed landsman, demonstrating each term as he defined it and using the gaff-rigged jolly-boat as his model. He named the parts of its hull -- its mast -- its standing rigging -- its sails -- and was proceeding to its sheets and lines when Stephen cut in with, "Surely we have already addressed the sheets? Are they not the same thing as the sails?" No, they were not; the sheet is a rope -- but no rope is ever called a rope -- a sheet and a tack together are fastened to the clew of the sail, at least on a ship's rig. "Ah, and these are the starboard and larboard tacks about which I have heard so much?" No, that tack was an entirely different thing -- and quite distinct, too, from the hard-tack in the breadroom!

"The dear knows I am glad to be the bringer of such amusement," said Stephen, "but I still fail to see why the Navy could not adopt some kind of logical taxonomy, some rational system of names by which each item could be clearly identified. Phylum, genus, species... surely someone in authority must know of Linnaeus?"

Bonden had nothing to say to this, other than that he had never met Mister Linnaeus, and that the tradition of the service had been good enough for him ever since he was a lad; and so Stephen bade him return their little boat, with its incomprehensible thwarts and pintles, back to Valletta.

They were weaving their way between the anchored ships in the harbour when Bonden brought his brows together and said, "Which it ain't my place to say anything, but you have always been right kind to me, and the men are awful attached to you and the Captain both..." He tailed off, and gazed distractedly past at the boat's wake for a minute, until Stephen encouraged him to continue. "Well, sir, with all respect, I just wanted to tell you that me and the lads, we don't believe a word of what they're saying ashore there about you and the Captain; and even if it was true, it ain't nobody's business but your own."

With this he pushed the helm to leeward and brought the boat about, covering their mutual embarrassment in the sudden flurry of activity. When they had settled on their new tack, Stephen faced him gravely over the steeple of his fingers, and thanked him in an even voice that betrayed none of the whirl of thoughts that assailed his mind.

He was still turning it over later that day as he accompanied the Surprises to the hills behind Valletta for their weekly target shooting competition. Captain Pullings, though no longer part of the crew, was still very much attached to them and provided a weekly prize of an iced cake in the form of a target, for which the ship's company competed division against division. As ship's surgeon Stephen was not attached to a division; he merely accompanied them and stood to one side, shooting methodically and striking the centre of his target time after time.

The cleaning, loading and firing of his pistols was almost as natural to him as breathing, and he had attention to spare for other matters. He measured his powder with practised precision, and considered what Bonden had told him.

"What is common knowledge to the intelligence services in Paris is also common knowledge in Valletta," he thought, "but is there a direct connection between the two? There has hardly been any unusual circumstance here to cause such a story to spring up of its own accord; no more than usual, sure, and perhaps less considering the way Jack has been paying his attentions to Mrs Fielding. The _Surprise_s crew most probably understand my feelings -- I have often been amazed at the way the foredeck hands can know every secret on a ship without a word being spoken -- but dear Bonden would not have spoken if it were only that." He fished a lead ball from his pouch and rolled it thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger before pushing it into the muzzle. "No, it must be a new story in the town, and in a town so entangled in intrigue and espionage I believe I may safely assume that the news originated in Paris. I have no doubt that Wray would like to know who brought it here."

He removed the ramrod and primed his charge, then cocked the hammer. Adopting the perfect duelling stance he had learned as a youth in Dublin, he stared evenly at the target and squeezed the trigger. No new hole appeared in the tattered paper, but a puff of dust assured him that this shot, like those before it, had hit its mark.

A cheer broke out, startling him; but it was just Calamy's division, who had won their cake. He let out a deep breath, packed his pistols away in their case, and joined the Surprises as they marched raggedly back to the docks.

* * *

"Well, Stephen, we are to sail on Thursday." Jack was tying his neckcloth as Stephen sat by the window already dressed in his cleanest frilled shirt and silk stockings. They were invited to a party at the Port Admiral's residence, and Jack, knowing Stephen's dilatory habits, had sent Killick to take care of him half an hour earlier.

"The Aegean?" Stephen had been absent from the meeting with Admiral Harte, not wishing to appear in any official intelligence role under such a man, but all Malta was aware of the likelihood of a mission to that region. Jack nodded his assent; it was no surprise to him that Stephen knew what was happening before the official word was given. Jack himself had heard about it the previous afternoon, from a group of officers who had called to him to join them in the courtyard as he had returned from his Italian lesson.

The party that evening was largely attended by military men and their wives; gold-laced blue coats and vivid red ones formed clusters in every room, interspersed with a sprinkling of other colours belonging to officers of other nations. Jack's lively eye darted around the room, noticing the officers of his acquaintance and appreciating the many women present in their evening finery.

"Do you see Mrs Fielding?" he asked Stephen.

"I do not, my dear, and although I should blush to advise you on matters of propriety, I cannot help but suggest that you should show a little less particular interest."

"What, Stephen, are you coming it the moralist now? You know it's nothing improper; ain't I allowed to enjoy a woman's company from time to time?"

"Sure, I know nothing of the sort; but I will admit I had suspected as much. Mrs Fielding is lauded for her continence, and beside, there is her enormous canine companion; but if you will permit me to say it, you are not known for your own continence, and in a port like this there is always a great deal of talk."

As if in response to his thoughts on Jack's notorious fornication, Admiral Harte appeared before them. "Why, good evening to you, Aubrey, Doctor Maturin. I do not believe you have met Colonel Harrington?" Harte introduced them. "Captain Aubrey, of whom we have all heard so much." Harrington was a tall man with an angular face and very fair hair. He looked down his nose at Jack, gave a very slight bow, and after performing the bare minimum which civility required, turned away and addressed some red-coated friends; his subject was personal, but he spoke in a carrying tone.

"I met Mrs Aubrey once. Charming woman, uncommon pretty. It's a good thing she ain't here to see what he gets up to when's he's been away from England awhile."

Jack could not help but hear; he turned a deeper shade of red, and clenched his fists, but with strained politeness he turned to address the Colonel and asked him to make his meaning clearer. Harrington was just about to do so when Stephen, who had noticed the Colonel's pointed look in his own direction, intervened. "Come away Jack," he said, "Come away, for all love."

Jack looked at Stephen and saw that he was deadly serious; flinging one last withering look at Harrington, he turned and swept out the door, dragging Stephen along in his wake. Standing outside in the damp evening air, he turned and said, "What do you mean, telling me how to conduct myself? By God, Stephen, I have good mind to demand satisfaction of him! How dare he suggest such things about Mrs Fielding? You said yourself that she is the very model of chastity."

Stephen's brows creased. "My dear, I believe there is more to this than you understand. I will explain it to you, but this is not something I would wish to discuss in a public place." The telling lift of his eyebrow suggested a secret; Jack was not unfamiliar with such situations, having been privy to a great deal of Stephen's more occult dealings, and took this to be something of the same nature.

"Oh, very well then. Surprises!" As Bonden and the other men separated themselves from the knot of attendants clustered under the porch, Jack said, "I do wish you could find a less inopportune time for these secrets of yours; affairs of honour are not lightly thrust aside."

Killick fussed and whined at them when they arrived home, until Jack sent him away. He left slowly, muttering about damp coats as he drew the door shut behind him, and Stephen was almost certain that he would remain on the landing with his ear to the keyhole. It made no difference; Killick undoubtedly already knew more of this matter than Jack did.

With some difficulty, Stephen composed his mind and began to set forth the situation. "You never met Adhemar de la Mothe in Paris, I believe, but it was into his protection that I placed Diana during our Grimsholm mission."

"Stephen, what bearing has this on Mrs Fielding?"

"None at all, my dear; Mrs Fielding is the furthest thing from my mind. Will you allow me to set forth the situation, or not?"

"Go on, then."

"Very well. La Mothe is a sodomite." Jack opened his mouth to say something, but Stephen continued before he could speak. "Through my association with him, I was suspected of the same vice. My superiors in naval intelligence have encouraged this report, since anything to my discredit will tend to mislead the enemy; as a naturalist, I already have one good reason for my travels, but if I were thought to be travelling with you for, shall we say, personal reasons, it would go some way towards explaining my presence in even the most unlikely situations."

"Good lord, Stephen," said Jack, "What are you telling me?"

"I do not believe the Colonel's insult had anything to do with Mrs Fielding. For some days now, I have been aware that the tale I have mentioned had made its way to Valletta; as you know the port is riddled with French sympathizers and spies, and I have no doubt --"

Jack's anger had been building, and at this point it burst forth. "Hell and damnation, Stephen! What in God's name were you thinking?" He rose from his chair and began to stride about the room; Stephen remained seated, his hands folded in front of him. "You sit there calmly and tell me that the whole town thinks I am a -- a bugger! Is it not enough for you that I have Harte to contend with? Must you make my life more difficult still? Damn your infernal secrets, Stephen; this is quite intolerable; this is coming it too strong by half!"

"Jack, you have often spoken to me of the requirements of the service; my service has its requirements, too."

"Your service goes too damned far, sir. You had no right to drag me into this; it is no wonder I have had such trouble with commissions -- with promotions for my men -- with my prizes. If this is known at the Admiralty... Christ! If Sophie were to hear of it!"

"I have had no report of the rumour in London; if it is known to anyone in Whitehall except my immediate superiors, it would only be because the Admiralty has been infiltrated by Buonaparte's agents. But I perceive that you would prefer it if it were not known at all; perhaps you would prefer me to be taken up and tortured again? I am sorry to disappoint you, but you will forgive me if I do not share that preference." He spoke quietly and evenly, meeting Jack's glare with his pale gaze, and when he had finished he stood and left without another word.

He heard Jack go out soon afterwards, and many hours later, still lying awake, he heard him return. A number of pairs of feet had trod up the stairs during the night, some more steadily than others, but Jack's step was unmistakable to an accustomed ear. Killick heard him, too, and Stephen could make out the low rumble of his monologue from across the hall until a rough word from Jack sent him shuffling out.

Any other night Stephen would have taken a draught against his insomnia, but tonight instead of comfortable insensibility he chose to reflect on what had passed between them. It seemed right that he should remain awake, as Jack did, rather than seek a cowardly escape from the consequences of his actions. The night drew on, marked out by the regular squeak of the floorboards as Jack paced across the floor of his room. Stephen lay staring at the distant ceiling. After so many years at sea, it almost seemed strange to him that he could not reach out and touch beams above his head, and that his bed did not rock with the waves; more disconcerting still was the absence of the sea's sussuration and the hum of the rigging and the regular sounding of the bell, without which Jack's solitary movements seemed uncommonly loud.

"Without a doubt Jack is exceptionally angry," he reflected. "I had thought we understood each other better; but perhaps I have been too cryptic, hidden too much from him for too long. He cannot have any real comprehension of the hazards of my calling; he might understand them better if they had the immediacy of a cannon-ball or a pike thrust, but he has no aptitude for politics.

"As for Sophie, I fear he is entirely in the right, and I have been too stupid to foresee it. I have been indescribably, execrably selfish. My own self-indulgence, my heedless obedience to my baser nature, has led me into this coil. It is inexcusable, inexcusable." But what penance could redeem him? Jack's warm-hearted forgiveness extended easily to such sins as unpunctuality and lubberliness, but offenses against his family and his naval career might well be unpardonable.

"Dear mother of God, I am an imbecile. What folly, what supreme folly, could have led me to believe that such a rumour could affect no-one but myself? Such egotism, such pride! _Contritionem praecedit superbia_... and to have fallen in such a way, to become estranged from him, is destruction itself."

He dozed fitfully as grey light began to seep through his window, and lay mopishly abed even after the sun had fully risen. It was only the smell of coffee and bacon and toast which roused him, not because he felt his usual hunger for a good breakfast, but because his empty, knotted stomach rebelled at the scent or even the thought of sustenance. He dressed hurriedly and distractedly, without shaving or even washing, and pulled on his boots in anticipation of a long solitary walk in the hills.

As he opened the door he found Killick standing on the other side, glaring at him with undisguised belligerence and holding a piece of paper. He thrust the paper at Stephen and turned away, muttering, "Up all night, up all bloody night he was."

Stephen retreated back into his room and shut the door; Preserved Killick's tone had divulged more than the direction on the outside of the note, written in Jack's familiar hand. He sat down at the window and broke the seal, noticing distractedly that his hands were shaking.

> Captain Aubrey presents his compliments to Dr Maturin --

The words echoed in Stephen's mind, recalling their dreadful breach ten years ago, aboard _Polychrest_, and he steeled himself against what was to follow.

> \-- and offers his sincerest apologies for his ill-thought words last night. He greatly regrets any harshness, and humbly requests the Doctor's company at breakfast, if he should be willing.

Before Stephen's mind had digested the words, his heart and his growling stomach had propelled him out of his room and across the hall to Jack's. Jack was standing by his own window, looking tired and worn but at least clean-shaven; when he saw Stephen his face cleared like the sky after a storm.

"Killick there, the coffee if you please." It was brought in on a tray, accompanied by reproving clucking sounds and baleful glances. He set it down amongst the plates of bacon and pots of marmalade, and retired still scowling. Stephen and Jack sat, strangely dumb, neither knowing what to say; fortunately Jack's experience at innumerable gunroom dinners stood him in good stead, and he manfully carried the conversation, offering Stephen a variety of comestibles and enquiring after his health.

"Sure, I slept no more than you did, my dear." He gave a wry half-smile. "I was certain you would never speak to me again."

"Lord, Stephen! I was so angry when I went out -- but that is past -- I thought better of it, as you see."

"I blush to think of the pain I must have caused you, my dear. But if you had rather not speak of it, let us put it behind us now. I pray you will accept my apology on the matter and speak no more of it."

"No, Stephen, it won't do; you must let me explain myself. You know I'm not much of one for rhetoric, never had the right sort of education for it, but I have spent half the night agonizing over this, so you must hear me now." Stephen regarded him steadily, a piece of toast forgotten in his hand. "What you said, Stephen, about your work, about the fearful risks you take. I should have known better... I _do_ know better..." Jack pushed himself away from the table and began to pace; his thoughts were too turbulent to be expressed while sitting down.

"I know perfectly well that your work is dangerous. Sometimes I forget that; I think of you stitching people up in the orlop or collecting your bugs and I forget that your life is as risky as mine is. Good God! I carried you out of Mahon myself; I shall never forget that. And the Temple, and Boston... but most of all, Mahon." He glanced at Stephen's hand, still holding the toast aloft, and still missing three fingernails. Stephen put the toast down.

Jack paused by the window, and gazed distractedly out over the harbour. "You have risked your life for England, Stephen; and you have risked it for me, dozens of times, and I have risked mine for you. No, let me finish." Stephen had not spoken, but he had risen from his seat. "I have loved you like a brother, like family, and more. I don't want to... I mean, dash it, you have been more to me than anyone on earth, all these years. The least I can do is bear this ridiculous gossip with good grace."

"Ridiculous?" The word was out before Stephen could stop it; tiredness and the upheaval of his emotions had completely overturned his usual cautious control of his tongue.

"Why, yes, of course."

There was no retreat now; Stephen felt the shadows of his night-time suffering condense into a pure brilliant clear shaft, pointing one unambiguous way forward, regardless of any peril.

"Soul, sometimes I fear you do not know me at all. I know I am not a model of transparency, but it pains me to think that we have sailed together for so long without you realising..." His words tailed off, but for once his face expressed what he did not say, with startling directness manifest even to Jack's clumsy comprehension.

They faced each other mutely, each trying to read the other's expression. Stephen, the faster reader, moved first: he stretched out his hand and touched Jack's face. Jack remained as motionless as a statue as Stephen's thumb brushed his cheek.

Stephen's kiss, when it came, could almost have been called chaste. He rose on his toes, leaned in, and pressed his lips against Jack's: a momentary warm pressure, then an ordered retreat of just a few inches to survey Jack's reaction.

A skilled diagnostician may perceive many subtle symptoms which would not appear to another man: Stephen saw a faint flush on Jack's cheek, a quickening of the pulse under his fingertips, and a marked dilation of the pupils; all signs he had seen in Jack before, though not in response to his own attentions. With his heart leaping, he kissed Jack again, more firmly, and was elated to feel him respond in kind.

Had anybody looked up at the open window, they would have seen two men, one large and fair, the other small and dark, in close engagement in the clear morning light. They were not a beautiful pair, and by no means graceful in their embrace, but no-one could have doubted the pleasure they took in each other.

Jack's hand rose tentatively to the nape of Stephen's neck, and he was drawing him closer when the door swung open and Killick shuffled in backwards, a gold-laced coat laid carefully over his arms. "Which it is --" he began, then turned and gaped.

Jack sprung away from Stephen, wiping his mouth. "Killick, get out." He turned back to Stephen. "You too. Get out, Stephen. Get out of my sight." His face was pale; this was not his usual high-coloured anger, but something much more dreadful. Stephen's throat constricted, and he stumbled blindly from the room.

Killick was nowhere to be found as Jack dressed to go aboard the flagship, and the bargemen who rowed him out to his meeting were dumbstruck and reticent; they would not have presumed to be sociable even under normal circumstances, but today the oarsmen might have been blocks of wood, so expressionless were their faces.

He was piped over the side and soon found himself in the Admiral's great cabin, attending numbly to the arrangements for the _Surprise_'s voyage. The mission was straightforward and largely uninteresting; he would have found it so even if his mind had not been elsewhere. The _Surprise_ was to proceed to the Aegean Sea, where the _Edinburgh_, 74, was already stationed. _Surprise_ would carry a packet of papers for her captain, Jack's old friend Heneage Dundas, and would remain there to show the English colours in those waters and assist in protecting friendly shipping.

It was a paltry errand, more suited to a sloop or brig than a frigate commanded by an experienced Post-Captain, but Aubrey could not bring himself to care; even without this morning's added impetus he would have been glad to get to sea and feel the wind in the stays and the rush of the clear blue Mediterranean water beneath his feet; as the meeting dragged on he wanted nothing more than to remove himself from Harte's odious presence and from the stinking gossip-drenched port and set sail.

"You will have your orders in writing before you sail, of course," said the Admiral. "However, I wanted to address some minor details in person. You will require a translator fluent in Turkish and Greek; I have arranged for one to be sent aboard the _Surprise_ tonight. He is a translator, no more; he has no particular experience in political matters, but that should not be necessary in this case."

Jack nodded; such arrangements were commonplace, and the only matter to be decided was whether the translator was a gentleman who should mess with the gunroom, or whether he would be better before the mast.

Harte continued, with a slight curl of his lip, "I suppose that you will be taking your friend" -- he placed a slight emphasis on the word -- "as ship's surgeon, as usual?"

Only a lifetime of naval discipline restrained Jack from striking him; it was certainly not any innate respect for the man. His hands clenched at his sides and his colour rose, but in a strained voice he said only, "Dr Maturin will not be joining the _Surprise_ for this voyage. I would be obliged if you would assign me a new ship's surgeon."

Harte's clerk choked back a titter, but the Admiral himself merely said, "Very well, you shall have Norris. That will be all, Aubrey." Jack touched his hat with ill-contained contempt, and left.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr Norris was a small, round, cheerful, unassuming man; he clambered up the side with moderate facility and looked about the deck with an expression of hopeful good-will. He did not notice the blank faces of the hands bringing his dunnage aboard as he introduced himself to the first lieutenant; and if he had noticed the creases on that man's brow as he went below to inform the captain, he would have assumed nothing more than that they were brought about by the great amount of work for which he was responsible in preparing the ship to sail.

Captain Aubrey was standing at the stern-windows when Mowett tapped on his door. "What is it?" he said.

"Sir, there is a gentleman come aboard, by the name of Norris. He says he is the ship's surgeon, and bears a warrant to that effect."

"So he is come aboard. Please show him his berth, William." Aubrey spoke in firm, measured tones. "And please present him with my compliments, and desire him to come and see me at his convenience."

The surgeon's berth was a small box of a cabin situated off the gunroom; it had recently been cleared of its previous tenant's books, papers, instruments and collections of flora and fauna, its bulkheads and decking scrubbed and flogged dry, and its meagre furniture set square in its place. It was as austere as a hermit's cell, but Norris was used to life at sea and cheerfully set about unpacking his sea-chest and adjusting the cot to his height.

When he had arranged the cabin to his liking, he settled his scrub wig firmly upon his head, tugged his blue uniform coat over his slight paunch, and set out for the captain's cabin with his papers in his hand.

"Certificate from the Sick and Hurt Board; your warrant of course; and I see you have a letter of recommendation from Admiral Harte." Jack suppressed a frown at the last; Harte's recommendation did not dispose him kindly towards the man, but he would not show it. "What is your service history?"

"Well, sir, I joined as a surgeon's mate having studied ashore, and served on the _Speedy_ and then the _Lively_ \-- after you had her, that was -- then I was examined and rated full surgeon; I have been serving on fourth-raters on the Toulon blockade for the last three years; most recently on the _Brunswick_."

Jack nodded. "Thank you, Mr Norris. I hope you will find the _Surprise_ to your liking; she ain't a ship of the line, but she is sound enough; I am sure you will do your best for her men. My first lieutenant will introduce you to the gunroom." With this he dismissed the surgeon and returned to the stern-windows.

Through them he could see a steady stream of boats bringing supplies aboard: water, salt beef, rum and tobacco, and all the myriad necessities of even a short voyage. They were nearly complete, and within a few bells Adams had come below to inform him that the last of the stores were being stowed as they spoke. Mowett followed close on the purser's heels. "The flagship is making our signal, sir; shall I give the order to weigh anchor?"

Jack gave his assent, and shortly he heard the click of the pawls and the cries of "stamp and heave, stamp and heave" and "pass the messenger along, there". He put on his coat and hat and gained the quarterdeck just as the report of "up and down, sir" was given. They set topsails and departed the harbour with a pleasantly stiff afternoon breeze; the crew, though fewer in number than _Surprise_'s full complement, were all experienced hands, and the usual hauling and heaving was achieved with a smoothness that told of long practice. This was not Portsmouth, where the complement could be filled with pressed landsmen and King's men; although only a handful of men had been taken on they were all seamen.

Malta sank behind them, and by the turn of the first dog-watch the island was no more than a faint nick in the horizon. Jack turned away from the taffrail and cast his eye over the waist and the guns. "Mr Rowan, we shall beat to quarters at two bells."

The windward side of the quarterdeck was sacrosanct to the captain, and for the next hour he stood there in solitude despite the near presence of the helmsman, the officer of the watch, and the other men who stood talking quietly on the leeward side. The shifting deck under his feet, the faintly humming rigging, and the neatly trimmed sails were his natural element, and he felt a certain contentment settle like a blanket over his underlying ill humour.

"Salt water washes all away, eh?" he thought to himself. "Lord, it is good to have the sea beneath me again."

It was his habit to make a clean sweep fore and aft each time they beat to quarters, and today was no exception. It had been months since the gun-crews had practiced, and he drilled them until they could once again do themselves credit. The smoke was still clearing when he returned to his cabin, the carpenter hammering behind him to raise the walls back into place; fewer walls than there had been on some previous occasions, with no partition to provide a small cabin for the captain's friend, the ship's old surgeon, Dr Maturin. The merest look from the carpenter conveyed his thoughts on the matter to his mate, who replied with no more than a shrug and a slight frown.

One deck below, the gunroom was gathering for supper. Norris came up from the orlop, where he had been dealing with a crushed finger and a badly bruised leg brought about by the choppy Mediterranean sea and the crew's long hiatus from gunnery, and took his place at table with the rest. The officers, all of whom had sailed on the _Surprise_ before, some in Jack Aubrey's earlier commands, greeted him politely but with a certain distance. Dr Maturin, despite his lubberliness and his tendency to cover the gunroom table with specimens, was an old friend and a true physician, and they were not happy to see him supplanted by a mere naval surgeon; the cause of Maturin's expulsion was of course never mentioned, could not be admitted at all without implying disrespect to the captain, but it formed an impenetrable veil between Norris and the gunroom of which that man was, happily, unaware.

"I am pleased to meet you all," he said with a smile. "This is an excellent claret, gentlemen; I do congratulate you on the cellar you keep, indeed I do." He raised his glass to them, and they responded in kind. He then enquired whether any present had sailed to the Aegean before, and conversation turned to the islands and turquoise waters of that region -- the many fishing boats -- the piracy of the Turks in those waters.

> "The daring corsairs, oar on oar, advance  
> To board amid the smoke and take their chance"

declaimed Rowan. "Oh, no," said Mr Gill, the master, "The Turks ain't corsairs, as such."

"Sir, are you a poet?" said Norris to Rowan.

"Why, I like to flatter myself that I have some talent," replied the second lieutenant, "though of course Mr Mowett also fancies himself in that line."

Mowett bowed and seemed about to recite one of his own works, for his rivalry with Rowan would permit no other course of action, when Norris cut in: "There is nothing I enjoy more than a literary gunroom; unless, of course, it is a musical one. Do any of you gentleman play? I myself have a German flute."

Amid the silent stares, Mowett recalled himself first and said, "I fear you will not find us very musical, Mr Norris."

"What a pity; I thought I had heard that Captain Aubrey was a rare hand with a fiddle; but perhaps I was mistaken."

Jack's fiddle sat untouched in its waxed covering that night; instead he took up paper and pen to begin a new letter to his wife. He sat staring at the words "Dear Sophie" until the ink dried on his pen, then at length he pushed the letter aside and pulled out his charts; having reviewed their course he went abovedecks, and spent the first watch and half the middle watch on the taffrail bench, staring at the wake streaming westward behind them.

The next day saw a steady light breeze just abaft the starboard beam, and the log heaved over the stern showed five or six knots throughout the day; at this rate it would take them a week to reach their destination, though it was likely that the southerly Sirocco would pick up considerably, bringing a few extra knots of speed.

The forenoon watch progressed without incident until it was time for the ritual of the noon observation. All the midshipmen plied their sextants until Maitland, one of the two master's mates, declared that the sun had reached its zenith, and the Master gave the order: "Turn the glass and strike the bell". As soon as the eighth stroke had been rung the drummer struck up "Heart of Oak" and the hands raced for the mess deck; at this Jack went below to prepare himself for the gunroom dinner to which he had been invited.

He found his steward in the great cabin, brushing his best coat in industrious silence; Killick, usually given to barely-respectful griping and muttering, had been a model of mute diligence since Valletta. "Which I never said a bloody word, did I?" he had whined to himself, but it was not his propensity for gossip that had undone him this time; the mere fact that he had burst into the captain's room, then come out gaping, with the Doctor, pale and shocked, hard on his heels, had been enough for the crew to blame him.

Jack himself was far from desiring any kind of apology, but he could not help wishing that Killick would revert to his old self; this behaviour was so out of character that every failure to whine, every respectful tugging of the forelock, every careful attention caused Jack a stab of pain.

Jack would have been surprised to learn of Killick's discomfort: in addition to his self-reproach and remorse, the steward had been shunned by most of the foredeck and was experiencing a strange solitary life aboard the crowded ship. There was no censure, no admonishment; just a strange stand-offishness and a tendency to look away; at dinner on the mess-deck, Preserved Killick was as isolated as the captain in his great cabin.

Even a captain's solitary life carried certain social responsibilities, and the gunroom dinner was one of them. It would be unheard of to refuse their invitation; therefore with Killick's deferential assistance he arrayed himself in a clean frilled shirt and neckcloth and his best coat with the gold lace, and climbed down the companionway as two bells struck.

They were only two days out of port, and the _Surprise_'s officers had had ample prize-money to bring in private supplies; the cellar and the manger were well stocked and should remain so through their short cruise. Lieutenant Mowett, as the new president of the mess, had chivvied the gunroom cook and the steward, and the spread laid out on the long table was as fine as any seen at sea.

"What a pity Tom is not here," thought Mowett, then supressed the thought: no matter how uncomfortable the dinner might be, he could not begrudge Pullings his promotion. Apart from that absence, the table was largely as it had been before: himself, Rowan the second lieutenant, Mr Adams the purser, Mr Gill the ship's master, Lieutenant Driver of the marines, Captain Aubrey seated near the head of the table and Midshipman Honey, invited for his cheerful voluble manner, near the foot; yet the one other change, that of Maturin for Norris, was so overwhelming that it threatened to engulf all conversation.

Fortunately for Mowett the gunroom of the _Surprise_ did not stand much on ceremony, and the officers spoke freely without being addressed; the Captain himself, though not in his finest form, ate and drank whatever was offered him, and made use of his old stand-by: "A glass of wine with you, Mr Gill! Lieutenant Driver, a glass of wine with you." When, in his progression around the table, he reached Mr Norris he saluted him with every appearance of friendship: "A glass of wine with you, sir!"

"Gladly," replied the surgeon, and filled his bumper. They drank each other's health, and Jack said he hoped his new post was to his satisfaction.

"Oh, yes, indeed it is. Everything is exactly as it should be; your previous surgeon has left it all in admirable order, admirable. But I understand that my predecessor was Dr Maturin; would he be the same man who wrote on the diseases of seamen?"

Jack nodded his assent.

"How I admire his learning!" continued Norris. "His comments on hernias were very thorough indeed. It must have been a great delight to have such a man aboard."

Norris observed Jack's frown, and quickly sought to understand what he had said amiss. In the same moment, Jack observed the shocked expressions of the officers, from Mowett and Rowan beside him even to young Honey near the foot of the table. Every one of them sat with his mouth open, staring at him with undisguised pity; as quickly as he recognised it, they turned away; each addressed himself to his food or his drink, or uttered some banality to cover his discomfort. Mowett was mortified, but could do nothing but continue the dinner with as much cheer as he could conjure up.

Jack sat brooding darkly, and hardly noticed the pudding as it was brought in. When at last they had toasted the King, he made his thanks with what civility he could muster and retreated to his cabin. The officers and even the servants standing behind their seats stared after him as he left; Killick did not follow him to his cabin, but slunk out to sit alone on the forecastle.

The other servants were more conversable, and when the gunroom had been cleared they gathered to regale their messmates with their retelling of the eventful dinner.

"That bastard has no fucking idea. If you could of seen him yammering away without a care in the world. Why, I almost..."

"You and me both, mate. Know what he said to me yesterday? I went to him for a blue pill, and he gave me such a lecture, moralised like a bloody Methody, and then he said it'd come out of my pay. The Doctor never would of done that; proper gent, he was."

"Ah, that's nowt worse than you'd get on any other ship, more's the pity. I shouldn't wonder if the barky's luck has gone with the Doctor."

"You shut your damn trap. I won't say it ain't likely, but then I won't say nothing that might come true, neither."

"Tis all Killick's fault, the whoreson bastard."

They nodded morosely, took another pull of grog from their jacks, and cast a baleful eye across the mess to where Killick sat.

Norris approached Mowett later that afternoon, and spoke quietly to him on the quarterdeck. "Mr Mowett, may I trouble you for a moment? I could not help but notice that I caused some discomfort at dinner today; I wished to apologise and beg that you might explain matters to me so that I should not put my foot in my mouth a second time."

"It is rather a private matter," said Mowett.

"No matter is private which affects the whole crew, sir," said Norris, "and I cannot help but be aware that there must have been some unpleasantness involving Dr Maturin. May I assume that there was some disagreement between him and the captain?"

"You may assume whatever you wish," said Mowett. "You are correct, however. They were, well, they were particular friends, but they fell out just before we set sail. If you have any compassion, I pray you will not mention his name again."

"You may depend on me, sir; I shall be the very soul of discretion."

Jack spent the afternoon below, with his "Dear Sophie" untouched before him on the table; he could not possibly find the words to tell her what had passed, and there was no way to write without explaining Stephen's absence. She could never understand it, and if she did, she could have no response other than disgust. But even disgust, even horror and outrage, would be better than what he had seen in the gunroom: pity.

He despised them for it. "Insufferable presumption -- gross lack of discipline -- have they no sense of the respect due to a superior officer?" Worse, the idea that they took such a close interest in his personal, his very personal affairs, was beyond discomfiting: it was utterly intolerable.

He was thankful for the refuge of his cabin, lonely as it was. Even if he were the type of man to make a crony of his first lieutenant, as some captains did, he had no wish to see the sympathy on Mowett's face or bear the considerate words which would no doubt flow from his mouth. He had little enough urge even to encounter the officers on deck; he almost wished for a close engagement or a heavy storm to ease his discomfort, before catching himself and superstitiously touching an overhead beam.

Though the wind freshened, there was no storm that afternoon, nor was there any sail in sight; Jack had to content himself with the noisy energy of gunnery practice. He worked the crews, starboard against larboard, through both dog watches, standing over each team as they ran the guns in and out and went through the motions of loading and firing a dozen times; he timed each repetition and roared at them until at last he was satisfied with their speed; then he ordered the gunner to distribute powder and each side fired two rippling broadsides and smashed both their beef barrel targets to splinters. Jack gave the order to "house and make all fast" and watched with grim satisfaction as each gun was secured.

The gun crews were dog-tired and stained with smoke and sweat, and Jack felt at least some shadow of their exhaustion; his throat was raw and hoarse, and the smell of match-smoke and powder lingered in his shirt and his hair. He lacked only physical fatigue; each man working the guns had hauled five hundredweight every time the cannon was run out, while he had done nothing but shout at them.

He looked up at the sails above him, glowing faintly by the light of the rising moon, and made a sudden decision. In seconds, he was halfway up the main-shrouds, then clambering onto the top, and continuing higher with a speed and determination that belied his heavy form. At last he gained the topgallant crosstrees, and stood with his arm companionably around the mast, surveying the enormous disc of the sea. "I am hardly even panting," he thought. "A fig to Stephen and his -- oh." The captain who returned via the backstay was a slightly less exuberant one than the one who had stood surveying the world from so far above, but his body, at last, was almost as tired as his mind, and he was glad to retire early.

He slept soundly until the beginning of the morning watch, when a shift in the ship's movement roused him. He came on deck in his nightshirt to find a patchy rainstorm, spattering the deck which bucked under his feet in the short seas.

"Wind's freshening, sir."

"Thank you, Mr Honey, I can see that very well. You may reef topsails if you see fit." The sun was rising when he appeared on deck for a second time, fully dressed and with his first breakfast inside him. He skirted the afterguard flogging the quarterdeck dry and cast a critical eye over the ship: she was sailing briskly under full sail -- Honey had not thought it necessary to reef the topsails -- with the wind on her beam. He was examining the log board when the cry came from above: "On deck there! Sail on the larboard bow."

Jack hurried forward with his glass; he saw a sloop on the horizon, her hull just peeping up. "What do you make out?" he called to the lookout.

"She's a ship-rigged sloop; privateer, I'd say." Covert, gleeful looks passed among the hands on deck.

"Steer three points to larboard, Bonden. Ease off tacks and sheets." The orders were relayed by Mowett to the master, and the _Surprise_ turned in pursuit.

Jack went aloft and peered through his glass in the grey morning light, the heaviness of his dreams replaced by the soaring lightness of the chase. They had a knot or two of speed over the sloop, and before she had noticed them the _Surprise_ had gained enough to make out more detail: by her rigging and what they could see of her guns, they were sure she was a privateer, and every eye trained on her could perceive the tricolour streaming from her jackstaff.

Jack returned to the quarterdeck with a gleam in his eye and set about the chase in earnest. "Send up double backstays and preventers, and we shall set royals and studdingsails."

"Aye sir." Mowett relayed the order, and the topmen sprang into action to carry the cables aloft, while the idlers were set to work heaving until the stays were as taut as fiddle-strings. The ropes hummed audibly, gaining in pitch as the _Surprise_ packed on sail after sail; Jack could feel their vibration under his hand. There was nothing he liked better than a chase, and nothing he knew more thoroughly than how to coax the best possible speed from his ship; she was at her best on a bowline, but far from shabby with a stiff wind on her quarter.

Mowett smiled, glad to see him in his native element, and the rest of the quarterdeck shared in his satisfaction; but as the day wore on, their satisfaction dimmed. They gained slowly on the sloop, but the wind strengthened and clouds gathered bell by bell until the faces of the hands on deck -- and all were on deck, for they loved a chase -- looked as dark and worried as the sky.

"Ain't seen nothing like it since the _Waakzaamheid_," said Faster Doudle to his fellow topmen. "If I din't know better I'd say he was daft."

Jack was indeed exhibiting a kind of mania; he laughed into the driving rain and spray. The ship plunged into the waves, smacking down and shuddering each time, but Jack merely gripped the rail and grinned through it all. "Nothing like it," he thought, "Devil take it all, I could sail like this forever." Aloud, he said "Heave the log, Mr Calamy."

The midshipman of the watch sent the log over the taff-rail, clear of the wake, and counted the knots slipping through his fingers as it streamed behind the ship. "Twelve knots, sir," he called.

Jack clapped the midshipman on the shoulder. "Splendid. This is the way to sail, ain't it? Ain't it, Mowett?" The lieutenant grinned and nodded. "Aye, sir."

The chase continued, bell by bell, with the Surprise gaining slowly but surely; they would have the sloop within two hours, if nothing carried away. Jack balanced on the carriage of a quarterdeck gun and looked aloft at the upper masts, bending like bows under the press of sail. His brows drew together momentarily, but a call from the lookout drew his attention: "She's pumping her water, sir!" He tore his attention from the topmasts, jumped down from the carriage, and stared forward like a hunting dog pointing at the quarry.

Mowett, bracing himself against the pitching movement of the deck with one arm around a stay, frowned. He had not been on the _Leopard_ when the 74-gun _Waakzaamheid_ had chased her round the Cape, and he was starting to feel some concern for the rigging. He shared a meaningful glance with the sailing master, but neither chose to check the captain's high humour.

Their frowns intensified as the wind began to gust, and Mowett was just opening his mouth to speak when he felt the stay shift under his hand. He sprung away immediately as it parted, stumbling on the moving deck and pushing the Captain down before landing against the wheel. From his prone position he looked up and saw the mizzen topmast carry away with a tearing sound and foul itself in the rigging; he did not notice Jack lying insensible beside him, where he had fallen after striking his head on the binnacle.

Jack regained consciousness slowly. The first thing he noticed was the lower pitch of the ship's essential song; they must have reduced sail. The second thing he perceived, though his sight was obscured by a dark blur, was someone leaning over him examining his head.

"Stephen?"

"No, sir; it's me, Norris. You've had a nasty bump. Can you see?"

Jack found that he could not; his vision darkened, and senselessness overcame him again.

* * *

The church bells had drawn Stephen back to Valletta; after four days in the hills, he had come footsore and lightheaded and covered in dust through the gathering twilight to St Simons, where the monks were chanting vespers. He remained in the town after that, retaining his lodgings at Searle's, though avoiding the other officers who also domiciled there, especially those like Tom Pullings who might have tried to offer sympathy.

His time was his own, and he spent it reclusively; apart from his occasional appointments and hospital visitations, his days were spent in the hills, or in his small dark room playing the unaccompanied cello suites that Jack had found in that remote London shop, so many months ago that it seemed like another lifetime.

Most days he visited St Simon's, at nones or vespers or sometimes in the small hours of the morning to hear matins. "I have no reason to stay in Malta," he thought to himself as he walked to the church early one afternoon, forsaking dinner. "Though to be sure I do not know where else I would go; England is no real home of mine, and though I am ashamed to say it I have no wish to see Diana; she is too intuitive, too quick, too sharp; her questions would only bring greater pain. To Catalonia? No; to be solitary in a crumbling castle could only bring greater melancholy; though it draws me I must resist its pull, as I would resist self-murder."

The nave of St Simon's was cool and dim after the heat of the midday sun. The French had stripped the abbey of its decorations during their occupation of Malta, and the dark plainness of the bare stone and brick reflected Stephen's penitential mood, as well as echoing the choir's song with an acoustic clarity seldom heard in the richest cathedrals. He sat at the foot of a stone pillar with his eyes shut, letting the monks' chant wash over him, soothing his mind with its simple purity.

"The abbot's voice is so old, and yet so true," he thought, "like the plainchant itself." Then his thoughts ceased to have words, and he fell into the chant as if it were a laudanum dream, carrying him on the rise and swell of its notes, folding around him like a cocoon; he was unaware of the passage of time, or of the uncomfortable bench, or of his other concerns.

The frail, pure voice ceased its song, and Stephen opened his eyes with a start. He blinked and looked around, noticing a few women in black faldettas moving towards the door ahead of him. One man rose from the rearmost bench; Stephen recognised his dark head and his coat at once, though his presence was entirely unexpected. Presumably he had come for the music; the fact that he walked straight past the holy water and candles supported that premise; it was inconceivable that anyone so high in government service should be a Catholic. Stephen tried to slip into a chapel; he was too slow; the gentleman had recognised him.

"Doctor Maturin." Wray bowed. "Do you come here often? I am a great admirer of plainchant, when it is well sung." Stephen murmured his agreement with little enthusiasm, but Wray continued. "You look quite parched; what do you say to a glass of ale? And perhaps a hand of piquet." He took Stephen by the elbow and swept him into a nearby public house, elaborating his thoughts on the Mixolydian mode and the _dona nobis pacem_ they had heard.

Wray found them a table and bespoke a pitcher of ale and a deck of cards, and all the while he spoke of music, ancient and modern, with understanding and spirit; Stephen was surprised to find him agreeable company, and was pleased to be able to sit and drink his ale without being expected to respond, beyond the bare necessities of civility and the game.

Stephen had always had uncanny luck with cards, but seldom played. As a boy he had fallen into debt over dice, and had promised his godfather never to do so again; he had made no such promise to the old man regarding cards; on the occasions when he did play, he loved to play high, and invariably won: not only did chance usually favour him, but he had learnt enough from a Spanish card sharp to avoid being cheated. "Wray would be mad to attempt to cheat now, after Aubrey's accusation," Stephen reflected; whether he had responded or not to that comment years ago in Portsmouth, his awareness of it must surely have made him scrupulous since then. He was right: Wray played fairly, and lost hand after hand with apparent goodwill, despite the high stakes. Stephen played seriously and with fixed intent; by the end he had amassed a considerable fortune.

"Will you give me double or quits on one last hand?" asked Wray, then lost with a rare septieme against Stephen's even more improbable huitieme.

"There is no satisfaction in winning with such outrageous good fortune," said Stephen.

"I believe I could bear it," replied Wray, taking out his pocketbook. "Perhaps you will give me my revenge some day when you are at leisure."

They met frequently after that, either in the same public house or in a quiet arbour nearby. Stephen soon learnt that Wray had little skill and less luck, and grew tired of taking his money; but Wray would never allow him to walk away without extracting a promise to meet again.

On this occasion they met for what Stephen declared would be the last time. For some time Wray had been settling his losses with promissory notes -- he was waiting for a remittance from London -- and this afternoon they were playing for the entire debt. Stephen cared little either way; he had no particular use for the money, and could not conceive of sums above a few guineas in any case; he had spent too long as a pauper to mind the presence or absence of fortune, and his mind was much oppressed with other matters. But even such a lack of enthusiasm could not bring him to lose a hand, and when all was done Wray tallied up the score, looked at him with a strange forced grin, and declared that he was unable to meet the debt.

He regretted it extremely -- was embarrassed by recent losses in the City -- was still waiting on a remittance. "But if you would oblige me by taking my note of hand for the meantime, I will have a deed of annuity drawn up in a few days, against my wife's estate, paid at the usual rate of interest, and the principal when she inherits."

Stephen looked grim; Wray had behaved extremely poorly, and both knew it; while Stephen might not care for the money itself, he could not help but be sensible of Wray's infamy.

"I am most extremely conscious of the favour I ask of you," said Wray. "Is there any way in which I can sweeten my offer? I am not without patronage, as you know."

"I doubt you have anything to offer me," replied Stephen.

"There was a time when I would have expected you to ask me to exert influence with the Admiralty; I was sure you would ask me for ships, promotions..."

Stephen stared blankly at him. "I have no further interest in naval matters, sir."

"Ah; certainly, certainly." Wray drew his brows together and looked away for a moment, then said, "It is a pity, however; I know people who would have been very happy to recognise your experience in that area, if you had intended to keep your hand in."

Stephen bowed non-commitally and thanked him, "but I do assure you that your letter of hand is quite sufficient."

He watched Wray leave, then took his seat again and called for coffee. What had Wray been trying to offer him? He had never accepted any form of recompense for his intelligence work; would consider it a debasement of his most dearly held sentiments; yet he had never felt that his contributions were unrecognised or unappreciated. The British Admiralty's intelligence service had accepted his loyal service, and his payment had been the promise of Buonaparte's eventual downfall. They had nothing else to offer him that he would be prepared to accept; Wray, who knew the department's pay-rolls, must know that.

A cold chill spread over him. There was another possibility. He turned it over in his mind as he stretched his fingers, feeling the crack of his damaged knuckles, then drank his coffee with steady deliberation.

An hour later he had walked up the steep narrow streets of Valletta to the Fieldings' villa. "I am sorry, Signora, to call upon you in this way; may we speak privately?"

Mrs Fielding dismissed her maid and offered Stephen a seat. He looked around the light, feminine room as if he had never seen it before, and waited until she had poured him a glass of wine before he spoke.

"In the course of my duties as a physician I am often obliged to discuss confidential matters with my patients, and indeed I have taken an oath which commits me to discretion; I mention this by way of a preamble, my dear, because I now find myself in the uncomfortable situation of seeking confidences outside the medical realm."

"Confidences, Doctor?" She blushed and rearranged her skirts, but Stephen did not notice.

"What can you tell me of Andrew Wray?"

"Mr Wray? Surely you know him better than I do."

"I know very little of him; but I am interested in his social connections, his friends, his contacts."

"I am amazed; I thought him an old friend of yours; was it not he who suggested I invite you to my musical evenings? He mentioned you most particularly by name, Doctor, and he introduced the Captain to me when he heard he was seeking lessons in Italian."

"What else has he said of me, or of the Captain?" Stephen's pale eyes conveyed the displeasure he did not speak, and Mrs Fielding was aware of it; she stumbled and blushed as she continued.

"He made some improper remarks, which I pretended not to understand." At this, a spot of colour rose on each of Stephen's cheeks to match Mrs Fielding's. "And he made me understand that if I should become friends with you, or with the Captain, he would appreciate it greatly; and when I entertained the Captain, he thanked me for it, and brought me letters from my husband."

"How did he come to have letters from your husband? I understood that Lieutenant Fielding was imprisoned at Bitche."

"I thought he must have them through the Admiralty; I did not ask; I was so happy to receive them."

Stephen regarded her steadily for some moments, and noticed what he had not seen before: Mrs Fielding's colour was high, and the bodice of her dress was worn low, unprotected by a tucker; she sat on the sofa next to him, leaning a little inwards; and yet something in the way she held her body indicated discomfort, and her expression bore a certain unhappiness. "My dear," he asked, "Am I to understand that Wray desires you to entertain me as you entertained the Captain?"

She nodded and bit her lip, then tears began to flow down her cheeks. "There, joy, do not cry; but please, tell me what that creature has done to trouble you so?"

"Oh, he is such an odious man!" She was sobbing openly now, burying her nose in a crumpled handkerchief, and her words became disordered, more interspersed with Italian. Stephen managed to understand that Wray had brought news of her husband from his French prison; had asked for small favours in the way of invitations and Italian lessons; and had progressed to greater importunities, suggesting that Mrs Fielding should pay particular attention to Aubrey and Maturin. He had withheld her husband's letters when she had been too timid, and had suggested that her husband's difficulties might be lessened if she were to provide certain information; and he had expressed himself in the most dreadful, ungentlemanly way, speaking of Maturin in terms one would blush to use in a bordello. Mrs Fielding had been compelled to accommodate him, for the sake of her husband, but she loathed Wray, and heartily regretted ever having been ensnared by him.

Stephen pushed back the fury that rose inside him, and said, "You must not worry, my dear; it is a sad coil, but we may be able to escape it yet. Will you trust me to see to it?" She nodded tearfully, and Stephen pressed her hand and stood to leave. "Say nothing to anyone. If Wray asks, tell him I was here to visit you, and that we spoke -- of music, if you will, or of other small matters -- make him think that I am becoming enamoured of you. I will call again in a few days' time." With this he took his leave; as he stepped out into the street his face took on an expression of cold calculation, which remained there as he walked back to his lodgings.

"A double agent," thought Stephen, "God rot his soul." He almost regretted his decision to avoid intelligence work under Harte; he was no longer familiar with the agents working in the area, and had no idea if there were any that he could trust. He would of course write to Sir Joseph as soon as he had enough information to make a good report, but even with the fastest packets it must necessarily be several weeks before anything could be done.

He paused at a corner and glimpsed the sea beyond the harbour. He could not be certain that Wray had been responsible for spreading those rumours in Valletta, but the bile rose in him nonetheless. He considered Blaine's likely response to the news, and smiled grimly.

For two careful weeks Stephen pieced together small fragments of information about Wray: he visited Mrs Fielding regularly, sometimes staying alone with her until the early hours of the morning to give the impression of a lover, and questioned her deeply regarding Wray's acquaintances and contacts; Mrs Fielding had seen him with certain men, whom she described, and Stephen recognised some that he already knew as French agents. Others he investigated discreetly, and began to build up a file of information, all carefully encoded in his usual cipher.

He had just left the hospital and was proceeding to a public house near the docks when a slight unease came upon him. At first he could not place the sensation, distracted as he was by reviewing the difficult cystotomy he had just performed, but shortly he realised he was being watched. He did not change his pace, but continued to the public house, where he chose a seat on the balcony, facing the street.

Stephen saw the man approach from some way down the street; he wore an ordinary slightly shabby black coat and grey wig, and walked purposefully, yet his eyes flickered in his unmoving face. When they glanced up to where Stephen sat they caught his gaze and held it for a second, then disappeared out of view beneath the balcony's railing.

"Un altro vetro, per favore," said Stephen to the waiter. The second wine-glass was just being placed upon the table when the man arrived. "Good afternoon, Warren. I am happy to see you." Happier still would he be to meet him later in some more private location; he knew Warren as a confidential associate of Sir Joseph Blaine's, and despite his appearance in Malta as an unassuming clerk, Stephen knew him to be involved in the most delicate intelligence operations.

That evening Stephen called upon Warren at his small nondescript lodging-house. He drew a file of papers from his coat and set them upon the table. "These are written in my own cipher; I did not think it suitable to use the Admiralty's; therefore, I will explain their content to you, and you may take your own notes." Warren nodded and took out his pen-knife, cut his nib with care, and set a sheaf of paper close at hand.

Stephen began: "Andrew Wray, the acting second secretary of the Admiralty, is a double agent. His primary contact is Andre Lesueur, who resides on the Via Sant' Ursula, at this address; his other contacts include Paolo Moroni, a Venetian, and these other men whose names I will write for you. But you are making a blot, sir; pray look to your pen."

Warren lifted its tip from the paper, where it was indeed causing a puddle of ink to form. "Maturin, I am amazed. Are you certain?"

"Never more certain in life; I swear it upon my soul and honour. The source who informed me of him is unimpeachable, entirely innocent of corruption; besides which, my first suspicions were aroused when he made certain overtures to me, perhaps thinking that I was dissatisfied with my service to the Crown; but his words were entirely ambiguous, and I responded in the most ordinary unexceptional way."

"You are sure he does not suspect that you know anything?"

"Moderately so; I have had little commerce with him since then, as I had some luck at the card table and he finds himself considerably in my debt; but his behaviour toward my informant is unchanged. She is the wife of an English officer imprisoned in France, and Wray encourages her to entertain me, perhaps to seduce me, in exchange for her husband's letters, which he receives by the hand of this Moroni I have already mentioned. Now, may we not call for some coffee, strong coffee, and continue?"

At last Warren's sheaf of clean paper was diminished to a few sheets, and a stack of close-written notes stood beside it. He looked up, rubbing his cramped ink-stained hand, and asked, "What did you intend to do with this information, this veritable wealth of information, that you have gathered?"

"I meant to send the sum of it to Sir Joseph; until today I could not name a single trustworthy man in Malta, or indeed in this entire region; I did not choose to play an active part in intelligence affairs under Admiral Harte, and have fallen sadly out of touch."

"It is true that there are few dependable agents here," said Warren, "as this proves." He nodded at the papers. "I think I must go to Sicily; there are people there upon whom we may rely. It may take me a day or two to find a suitable vessel to carry me, but within a week, or perhaps a little more, we should be in a position to take him."

"I would like that of all things," replied Stephen, his eyes becoming hard. "There is nothing I despise more than that detestable traitorous blackguardly rumour-monging turncoat. I shall be glad to see him hang."

"You may be disappointed, my friend. I fear that our people will want to talk to him at some length, first."

"I believe that would suit me equally well."

The week passed with painful slowness. Stephen continued to haunt the the places where Naval gossip might be heard, carefully gathering crumbs of intelligence; Warren's appearance and Wray's imminent arrest were no reason to stop. At the hospital a bargeman with advanced syphilis told him which ships the second secretary visited; the lay brother who swept the steps of St Simon's described Lesueur, whom Wray met once a week after hearing nones; even the officers he encountered in the courtyard at Searle's were abuzz with the latest news to leak from the Admiralty.

Each evening after enciphering his findings, he took up his 'cello to play: long melancholy solos from a bygone age, their notes piling upon each other in increasingly complex patterns. Sometimes he sat with the instrument between his knees and the bow in his hand, allowing despondency to overcome him.

"The nights are the hardest to bear; there is no gainful employment to distract me, no bustling and noise to fill my mind; if anything my insomnia is greater than ever. I would welcome it, if there was no need for a clear mind tomorrow; it is only necessity that encourages me to take this draught; and not so great a draught, at all: a mere five hundred drops."

He visited Mrs Fielding every few days, always staying some hours alone with her, in spite of her maid's disapproving expression. She showed him her husband's letters; Stephen reassured her, though not with an entirely blameless conscience, that her husband's condition was not too dreadful and must certainly improve with time. "And how are you managing, my dear? Have you spoken to Wray this week?"

She nodded. "He sent for me yesterday. He says you are involved in shipping, commerce, insurance, and tells me you have secret papers relating to trade with the enemy; he desires me to visit you, to find them, to bring them to him."

"Is that so? Well, my dear, you shall have them, or something that will serve our purpose equally well; we must not disappoint him. Will you come to see me on Wednesday night?" They discussed arrangements, and sat talking companionably, eating dry biscuits and drinking wine. At length, when the night was sufficiently advanced to lend verisimilitude to their deception, Stephen took his leave. "You must come to the door and kiss me," he told her, brushing biscuit crumbs from his waistcoat. "It would not do to disappoint our watcher." She embraced him with real affection in the sheltered archway, and he departed, carefully ignoring the man who stood observing him from the shadows.

It was harder to ignore him the next day, when he and another man - one of Moroni's associates, Stephen thought - followed him into a narrow side street. He swore, inexpertly, under his breath; a dozen reasons for their presence sprang to his mind, but the only justification for their open appearance in this alleyway, only a few dozen paces behind him, was that Wray had tumbled his scheme.

Without waiting for confirmation he took to his heels and slipped out of the alley and on to the busy Piazza Regina. He found himself in a crowd of uniforms, red and blue, tossed in confusion with black-veiled local women and an inexplicable herd of goats. "Jesus Mary and Joseph, I will never walk down a quiet street again," he muttered to himself, and set out quickly towards his lodgings, keeping to the busiest thoroughfares and looking discreetly behind him as he turned each corner.

His room was undisturbed. He gathered his papers, tied them securely, and slipped them under his waistcoat. He loaded his pistols, then realised he could not easily carry them without arousing interest; it was too warm for a greatcoat or a cloak. He replaced them in their case, and instead chose two fine sharp lancets from his medical instruments and placed them in the pockets of his jacket.

Five minutes later he sat uncomfortably in a corner of Searle's courtyard. He nodded in tight-lipped distraction to the few officers who greeted him and reviewed his situation: "Warren will return tomorrow or the next day, at the latest; he has almost all my information, and will have passed it on to his trusted contacts. Wray is almost certainly unaware of Warren; if he knew, he would already have fled. The information I carry is not essential; Warren can easily move with what he already has; yet it is valuable enough, to be sure. If I can survive this next day or two, I will have the very great pleasure of seeing Wray taken; I must be careful never to be alone in any place; he cannot touch me in company."

It required some fortitude for him to forego his usual solitary evening of Bach and laudanum in favour of the opera; he felt ill at ease and exposed, pinned under the scrutiny of Valletta society like a bug under a microscope. Yet every half-heard whisper of "he was the ship's surgeon -- particular friend -- disgusting naval habits" indicated another person who had seen him, and would notice if he were to disappear.

He was making his way towards his seat in the centre stalls when he encountered Wray. The secretary's face turned pale; he bowed stiffly and said, "I did not expect to see you here, Doctor Maturin."

"I have no doubt of it, sir," replied Stephen with no attempt to disguise his abhorrence. "And yet here I am, _in corpore_, for you and all to see. Pray excuse me."

He took his seat as the lights dimmed and the orchestra's rotund grey-haired conductor took his place. His baton came down and the music rose up; Stephen was struck as if by a blow. "Figaro, of all things; how painfully apt." He knew it intimately, and had no need to observe the performers; as the acts progressed, he stared blankly at the stage and heard other Figaros from his past, from London's finest opera house to a rough deep untrained voice humming the Deh Vieni on the quarterdeck before battle.

"Ti vo'la fronte incoronar di rose," sang Susanna; Stephen swallowed painfully and blinked. For the first time, he noticed Wray in one of the boxes; his pale face was staring at him with undisguised hostility and -- was it fear? Stephen stared bleakly back at him.

He felt no less bleak when he stood, later, near a group of departing officers; some were returning to Searle's, and he would walk with them. He was listening half-heartedly to their conversation when Captain Turner approached. He was a small, tanned man, whom Stephen had once helped patch up after a splinter had pierced his side. "Doctor Maturin, what a pleasure it is to see you. We have not seen you about town at all lately. I do hope you will join us tomorrow for our card party, if you are not otherwise engaged?"

"Would you invite that man into your home, sir?" Turner and Stephen both turned and saw Wray. "I for one would not invite that papist sodomite anywhere; besides, he cheated me most abominably at piquet not three weeks ago."

Turner gaped in the sudden silence, then addressed Stephen. "Sir, should you stand in need of a friend, I would be honoured...."

Stephen drew his brows together quickly before answering. Wray had surely intended his insult to have this effect; he must certainly expect to be called out for it; no doubt he sought an opportunity to do what his agents in the alleyway had failed to achieve. If he had any more subtle motive, it did not matter; the insult, so defamatory and so publicly given, could not be denied. Stephen's blood rose within him, and he said, "My friend will call upon you in the morning, sir."

"Have him call tonight, sir; I will see you in the morning." Wray turned on his heel and left.

Despite Turner's offer, Stephen found himself at Captain Pullings's door not long afterwards. Pullings lodged at Searle's, in a small room at the back of the house, but Stephen had hardly seen him, had not spoken more than a short embarrassed greeting, since the _Surprise_ had sailed. Tom answered the door half undressed, with his shirt unbuttoned and his hair loose, and choked back a cry of surprise at seeing the Doctor standing on the threshold. "Come in, come in; a glass of grog? Or would you prefer wine?"

"Tom, my dear, I am afraid I must ask you to act as my friend in a matter of honour." Stephen stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "Pray put on your coat; where are your stockings, your hat? You must step around there tonight; he wishes to meet in the morning."

"Ain't that rather hasty?"

"Sure, it is; but Wray is an irregular ill-bred vulgar churl with no more idea of proper behaviour than a hottentot." Stephen explained the matter as Tom dressed. "It was a public insult; he accused me of cheating at cards, and of criminal acts I prefer not to name." At this each refused to meet the other's eye. "I told him I would send a friend to wait upon him in the morning, but he declared that he would see me himself at dawn. I am sure you will make suitable arrangements; you will find me in my room when you return."

Stephen's room was as he had left it; it would be safe now, at least until morning. He drew out the papers from his waistcoat, and sat down to transcribe them for Warren's benefit.

"Wray cannot know about Warren, otherwise he would not take so desperate an action," he mused between code groups. "He must certainly mean to kill me. Yet it is of no great moment; I have faced dozens of men before this. Honour at least will be served, and if I should die I shall at least know that Wray's death must follow soon enough. Oh, let Warren arrive tomorrow!"

Tom returned; the arrangements had been made quickly and with no wrangling: pistols at twenty paces, at dawn, in a field outside the town. Stephen thanked him and Pullings left, concern apparent on his face.

Stephen wrote through the night. An hour before dawn, he was interrupted by a soft tap on the door. He finished his letter -- "my dear love to Sophie. Your most obedient servant..." -- and sealed it, while Tom stood waiting.

"Tom, may I entrust these letters to you? This first package is a confidential matter; do not speak of it to anyone. I have written Warren's address here; he will return to Malta within a day or two, and must receive these privately. Here is a letter for my wife; if you could deliver it personally to Half Moon Street I would be extremely grateful. This last is for Captain Aubrey."

They arrived at the duelling ground as the sun rose. Pullings had brought a surgeon and two other attendants; Wray's party, of a similar size, stood on the opposite side of the field.

Stephen stood still and quiet as the weapons were inspected, breathing steadily with his pale eyes fixed on his opponent. He did not often see daybreak; the fresh pure light seemed strangely fitted to his mood: on a morning like this, with his responsibilities in Tom's capable hands, he felt free of the cares of the world. He had observed the euphoria some men felt during battle; this was similar, but quieter: a clean, unencumbered feeling, and a perfect willingness to die.

The seconds returned to their parties, and the principals took their places. Tom passed Stephen his pistol, one of Joe Manton's best; he hoped it would serve him well.

He looked down the dully shining barrel, fixing his gaze on Wray's arm. At the signal, he squeezed the trigger and saw Wray's pistol jerk from his hand; at the same time he felt the impact in his own side. He staggered and was caught; careful hands lowered him to the ground. Tom's face appeared in above him, speaking words he could not understand, and the surgeon began to probe at his chest.

"Wray..." said Stephen.

"Just his hand."

"He will live. Good." Stephen shut his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack stared blearily at the charts in front of him, and ran a hand across his eyes and down over his unshaven face. The spattering of small islands blurred in front of him like a mess of indistinguishable inkblots; and for every flyspeck of an island, innumerable boats and tiny Greek villages, to whom the _Surprise_, in company with the _Edinburgh_ under Captain Dundas, were supposed to "show the colours". Weeks upon weeks of aimless sailing, they had had, while the slow wheels of diplomacy turned.

The Aegean Sea outside the stern-windows was the same blinding, vivid blue as the sky; the colour, and the raucous screeching of innumerable sea-birds, made his head ache. He sipped a little of the water that stood by his hand, then closed his eyes and sat for several long moments, slumped in his chair.

There was a sound at the cabin door. Killick knocked -- a new habit, laudable in its own right, yet painful in its associations -- and entered with an armful of clean, mended shirts and a bowl of hot water. "Begging your pardon, Captain, but which it is time you were shaved and abovedecks."

Jack shot him a scowl, but recognised the truth of it. Mowett and the other officers hardly needed him to sail the ship, would probably do better without him if truth be told, yet the proper forms must be observed, or discipline would crumble: where there was no discipline at the helm, there could be none in the crew. Duty, therefore, demanded that he present himself on the quarterdeck with every appearance of clear-minded dedication. He sat back and succumbed to Killick's ministrations with the soap-brush and razor.

By the time he was arrayed in a fine white shirt and freshly brushed jacket, he had pushed his blue devils aside, and managed to stand and put on his hat with a reasonable display of spirit. "Well now," he said, "Let's see what's toward."

He climbed lightly up the companionway, blinking as the sun assailed his eyes, and surveyed the deck. The men were at make and mend, many of them sewing new slops to replace those they had lost at Valletta, or working at innumerable other small but necessary tasks. The men seated nearest the hatch touched their hats to him as he gained the deck, and he returned their greeting.

Suddenly there was a commotion on the forecastle. Every man on deck stared forward, distracted from their needles and awls, to where Barrett Bonden stood rubbing his knuckles; Joe Kelly, who had joined the crew at Malta, was bleeding profusely from his nose, staining the slops he had dropped on the deck with red splashes of blood.

"Mr Mowett," Jack roared, striding onto the quarterdeck, "what is the meaning of this God-damned circus? Master at arms, take both those men below." Those on duty on the quarterdeck scurried to the leeward side; Jack scowled at the logboard, then took up his regular pacing on the weather side.

* * *

William Maitland was a conscientious divisional officer, and was sorry to see any of his men punished. There was sadness in his expression when he went below to speak with the coxswain, a man who had served on the Surprise for many years.

"What were you thinking, Bonden? You know better than to quarrel on deck, of all places."

"Couldn't rightly say, sir." Bonden's expression was wooden, his gaze fixed on a point just to Maitland's left.

"You're a good seaman; your record is spotless, until now. I shall speak on your behalf, of course." Bonden thanked him. "I have no doubt that Kelly provoked you. What did he say?"

"Can't remember, sir."

Maitland narrowed his eyes. "Do you suppose you'll remember when you are lashed to the grating tomorrow?"

"Don't think so, sir."

Maitland nodded slowly; nobody liked an informer, and in this case it would be even less desirable than usual. "That's probably for the best," he said.

Bonden blinked and looked at him with quick comprehension.

"Calamy was there. He told me." The youngster had been round-eyed with wonder at the incident, and very little oppressed by the captain's anger; he had, however, stumbled over the words he repeated to Maitland, and asked for a definition. "He said the ship was worse than a fucking molly-house -- what's a molly-house, Maitland?"

Maitland sighed and turned to leave. "Best of luck, Bonden," he said.

Heading aft, he passed Lieutenant Rowan, on a similar errand to visit Kelly. "Sad business, sir," said Maitland.

"Yes, Mr Maitland; an extremely regrettable lack of discipline."

Maitland nodded and continued on his way. The midshipmen's berth, as he approached it, was quiet. Pushing aside the canvas flap that served as a door, he found Calamy at the table, staring with wide eyes as Williamson whispered in his ear.

"Williamson, don't you have duties? If not, find some. On deck. Go." Maitland scowled at the retreating youngster, and sat down opposite Calamy, sliding sideways onto the narrow bench. "What was that about?"

"He was just telling me about the molly-house."

Maitland sighed. "What about it?"

Calamy flushed and stammered. "He said it's like Mother Marietta's near the docks in Valletta, only for, for sodomites. Like in the Articles of War." His questioning expression seemed to seek confirmation or denial.

"Listen here, Calamy," said Maitland, "Kelly is a troublemaker and a fool. He doesn't know the first thing about this ship, nor does he know the Captain; so just you forget what he said, and don't let me hear another word on it from you."

"Yes sir," replied Calamy in a small voice.

"And don't believe everything Williamson tells you, either."

In the wardroom further aft, Rowan returned and encountered Mowett. "What are you drinking," he asked, taking a seat and loosening his neckcloth.

"Grog," said Mowett, and poured a tumbler-full for the second lieutenant. "You've been to see Kelly?" He passed the tumbler to Rowan, who nodded and took a long sip. "What did he have to say?"

"He's not what you'd call a picture of contrition."

"There's been a lot of scuffling with the new men," said Mowett, his tone making it half a question.

"That is neither uncommon nor surprising."

"It ain't easy to settle new men into an established crew," observed Mowett, "I've seen it often enough before."

"Sometimes more difficult than others," replied Rowan with a tinge of bitterness in his tone. "One can hardly blame them if they are not entirely happy with this situation."

Mowett drained his glass and looked steadily at the other lieutenant. "Captain Aubrey is a good captain."

"Of course he is; but those men have not seen it."

"He just needs a good fight, though we're damned unlikely to find one here, I'm afraid. He hasn't been himself since... well, you know."

"You know. I know. We all know. The whole bloody crew knows, Mowett." Rowan set his glass down hard on the table and frowned. "I tell you, it's a damned shame that anything of the kind should ever have happened. A shame, and a bloody disgrace, and a blasted hindrance to discipline."

Mowett leaned across the table and spoke low but clearly. "And our duty is to maintain discipline, and to support the captain. I trust you we are in agreement on that point?"

"Aye," replied Rowan, but looked troubled.

* * *

The sun beat down brightly on the assembled crew, arrayed by division and all wearing their broad-brimmed sennit hats; they squinted and sweated under its glare.

"Article twenty-three. If any person in the fleet shall quarrel or fight with any other person in the fleet, or use reproachful or provoking speeches or gestures, tending to make any quarrel or disturbance, he shall, upon being convicted thereof, suffer such punishment as the offence shall deserve, and a court martial shall impose." Jack stood grimly at the fife-rail in his gold-laced coat, looking down at the crew as he read the words. The grating had been rigged, and the bosun and his mates stood by with the red baize bag.

"Joseph Kelly, you uttered provoking speech yesterday in the afternoon watch. Have you anything to say for yourself?"

The sullen seaman replied, "No, sir."

"Barrett Bonden, you struck Kelly with your fist, in contravention of the Articles of War. What have you to say for yourself?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Will anyone else speak for these men?"

"Sir," said Lieutenant Rowan, "Kelly is a member of my division, and is a good and able seaman."

Maitland stepped forward in his turn. "Sir, Bonden is an able seaman and has served willingly and conscientiously these many years." As well you know, he thought. "I believe him to have been greatly provoked, or he would not have offered violence to any of the this ship's crew." If there was a slight emphasis on "this ship", it was not officially noticed; the old Surprises, however, took his meaning plainly. He stepped back to his place, and all hands' attention returned to the captain.

"The punishment for quarrelling is given according to the laws and customs of the sea. Two dozen lashes each."

"Hats off," cried Mowett, and the crew removed their hats to witness the punishment.

Each ship in the fleet had its own traditions; the Surprise punished on Thursdays, when it punished at all (on some happier cruises there had been many weeks between two riggings of the grating), while many other ships preferred Saturday or another day of the week. In a similar vein, each ship had its own traditions regarding crying out. Kelly had come from the _Aeolus_, where every man who was flogged set up a great wailing cry, and now as the bosun's cat struck his back his cries of "Oh! Aoooohh!" rang across the shocked, silent deck. To the Surprises, used to stoicism, it seemed immoderate, heathenish.

At last, to their somewhat mixed relief, Kelly was taken down. Bonden stepped forward to take his turn, stood against the grating and raised his hands for the ropes. The bosun's mates secured him, and stood back as the bosun delivered two dozen stinging lashes. The cat tore into Bonden's strong, tanned back. Hollar ran his fingers through the strands of the cat at each stroke, untangling them and letting blood drip to the deck; no favouritism could possibly be shown with the Captain's grim visage staring down from the quarterdeck.

Bonden gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, and made never a sound until they took him down, when a single shuddering groan escaped his lips. His mates supported him as the ship's company were dismissed, and led him below.

He was lying face down in his hammock, his mates crowding around to offer him their grog, and Joe Plaice carefully bandaging his back, when Preserved Killick approached crabwise and caught his eye. Bonden's mates, old Surprises all, turned and glared at him; but Bonden greeted him and said to the gathered crowd, "It's right kindly of you to look after me, mates, but you can all sod off now while me and Killick have a word."

The men withdrew to a discreet distance, and Killick pulled up an upturned tub and sat on it. From beneath his blue jacket he retrieved a bottle and upended it into Bonden's leather jack. "Which it's Spanish brandy, perquisites as you might say." Bonden gave a wry grin, and pushed himself up on his elbows to take a mouthful. "Jesus, that's the stuff alright," he said.

Killick swigged from the bottle, then replaced the cork and shoved it back under his jacket. "Ahhh." He wiped his lips and leaned forward confidentially. "He don't let on, but he knows what Kelly said, sure enough."

"Who told him?"

"No bugger would dare; but he knows or he guesses, right sure he does, and he don't like it no more than you or me, Barrett Bonden. Can't do nothing, though, can he now? Which it is his duty to keep the barky behaving proper like, come hell or high water."

"How does he hold up? He looked like a dog what's been kicked when I rowed him back from the _Edinburgh_ the other day."

"He don't eat right, nor sleep; not what I'd call sleeping proper, not like he should. That fool Norris tried to dose him t'other night, but he wouldn't stand for it."

"You and me both know what he needs, and it ain't a bleeding slime draught. And Norris ain't the doctor to give it."

"Right enough, right enough." Killick shook his head mournfully, and they sat in silence some moments.


	4. Chapter 4

The Surprise sailed into Valletta harbour under topsails and topgallants and took her place in the roads; the great port was filled with men of war and all the various shipping of the Mediterranean -- sloops and packets, lateen-rigged fishing vessels, and small craft plying their way about under oars or sails. Both watches stood on deck lining the gangway, and looked impatiently landwards. Every man among them longed for shore leave; five weeks in the Aegean had stretched out interminably, with no action and little joy to be found aboard.

Bonden stood with the rest in his neat shoregoing rig, and peered intently at the docks. "He ain't there," he muttered in a low voice to his neighbour and cousin, Joe Plaice. "It ain't right; he ought to have been there, because why? Because the Edinburgh's been in a whole day since, ain't she? So he must know. Oh, where is he, the cloth-headed --" Joe nudged him into silence as the bosun approached.

"Lively now, stand by the anchor, there. Clear the decks, damn your eyes!" Bonden ducked out of his way, and joined the boat crew to one side. They had been ready since the last bell, and now gathered in their beribboned trousers and best sennit hats to row the captain ashore; yet a flutter of bright colour from the flagship Caledonia, standing some little way distant, warned them otherwise.

Standing on the quarterdeck, Jack made out the signal before the midshipman could relay it: "Our number, sir: 'Captain repair aboard flag.'"

"Thank you, Mr Williamson," said the captain. "Mr Mowett, see her anchored and await my return; no shore leave." He ignored the looks from the officers on deck and the openly sullen expressions of the men in the waist; it would not hurt them to wait, and their behaviour these last weeks had hardly warranted any special privileges. Drunken, quarrelsome curs, the lot of them; he had seldom known a ship's company in worse temper and for so little reason.

The boat crew now cast off the launch in glowering silence, tempered only by Bonden's faintly worried expression and terse orders; they sat ready as Jack took his best gold-laced hat from his steward, stumped down off the quarterdeck, and lowered himself over the rails and into the waiting launch.

The oars splashed their regular rhythm and creaked in their locks, and the calls of seabirds and cries from other ships floated across the smooth water as Jack sat in a deep study staring steadily ahead.

"What boat?" called one of the Caledonia's midshipmen from aboard the three-decker.

"Surprise," replied Bonden, indicating that the launch bore the captain. They pulled alongside, tossing their oars and touching the ship's side with practised precision; Jack heaved himself up the side-chains and onto the deck, where he was met with all due ceremony: bosun's pipes and white gloved sideboys, and a lanky, saturnine young lieutenant touching his hat in greeting.

"Admiral Ives will see you directly, Captain Aubrey," he said. Jack opened his mouth to ask "Ives?" but thought better of it; obviously Harte had been replaced -- his command had, after all, been merely an acting one -- and he could, he reasoned, deliver his report with equal if not greater ease to his replacement. It didn't matter a tinker's dam, in any case; there was nothing to report.

"Aubrey? Aubrey! Capital, capital," cried Sir Francis Ives, emerging at that moment from the hatchway with an energetic step and keen gaze around the deck. Jack saluted him; they were old acquaintances, though he had never served under him before. "Come into my cabin, and have a whet," continued the Admiral. "You know they've made me Commander in Chief, of course?"

Jack nodded. "Wish you joy of your new command, sir."

"Little enough joy with all these ceaseless blockades and convoys, I'm afraid, but I thank you kindly all the same," replied Ives with a fleeting smile. "Dreadful business about Harte, dreadful -- but perhaps you haven't heard it all, yet? No, I see you have not." With that they entered the cabin, and he offered Jack a chair; his steward and secretary both entered, one with a tray of drinks, the other with a sheaf of papers.

"Sherry or madeira?" asked Ives, taking for himself a mug of pale ale. When Jack had accepted a glass of madeira, Ives fixed him with a quick, intelligent look, and said, "Perhaps you had better give me your report first, and then I will bring you up to speed. I've seen Captain Dundas already, so you may dispense with the details and simply give me a precis. You have your official report there?"

Jack handed over the papers, and launched into a short recounting of the Surprise's Aegean sojourn: long, dull weeks of sailing about in company with Heneage Dundas's _Edinburgh_, 74, for the most part, enlivened only by gunnery practice and occasional reports of diplomatic progress ashore; throughout Jack's report, the Admiral nodded and murmured "Yes, yes," as if wishing him to hurry to the end. Jack brought his report to a conclusion with a brief condition report, and awaited the admiral's response.

"Damned waste of your talents, sending you on an errand like that. Any fool could have done it. But that blasted cur Harte... well, I had better tell you what you missed while you were lazing around the Aegean, I suppose." Jack had looked up at his opprobrious reference to Harte, and now waited expectantly for him to continue. "I have a letter here from Sir Joseph Blaine, Aubrey. A commendation, in the completest manner; never seen anything like it. You and Maturin both."

"Doctor Maturin, sir?" Jack paled under his tan.

"Aye, it seems that even when he's not playing the intelligence agent, Maturin is better at it than any other man in the Mediterranean. D'you know what he did, Aubrey? Single-handedly found the damned leak that's been plaguing us this last year or more; and I dare say you will gape even wider when I tell you it was that infernal bugger Wray, of the Admiralty." Jack had indeed gaped, and could find no words to answer him, so Ives continued. "Now, Aubrey, Sir Joseph raises a rather delicate matter, and I hope you won't mind me mentioning it. It seems there was some damn' unpleasant scuttlebutt around here before you left -- yes, I see you know what I mean -- and Sir Joseph writes to assure me that the matter was entirely a ruse, an artifice, d'ye understand? Intelligence matters, you know; they have their own manoevres and stratagems, I dare say. So we'll say no more of it, and you may be assured that I'll not let another word of it be heard while I'm in command here. That sort of nonsense can break a man, if it's allowed to get out of hand; I've seen it happen before, but I'll not see it happen to one of our best Post-Captains. Now then, what have you to say to that?"

Jack fought to control his confusion, and expressed his thanks as best he could. Draining his glass, he sought for something further to say. "And Admiral Harte?" he asked at last, as Ives refilled his glass.

"Couldn't quite say, I'm afraid. Sent home; some ignominious connection with that blackguard Wray I believe. I'll wager there are some pretty questions being asked in Whitehall."

"Sir, I am much obliged to you for the news. Have you -- have you spoken to Doctor Maturin?"

"Oh yes, had his report when I arrived; wonderful detail. I do hope he is recovered; you must convey to him Sir Joseph's commendation when you see him. But now, I must give you some ill news to go with the good."

"Sir?"

"You say the Surprise is in good form and well supplied?"

"Tolerable, sir. We will need to take on water and supplies, and could stand to have more cable and spars, but we are very nearly fit to put to sea at once."

"She is a twenty-eight gun frigate," remarked Ives superfluously, as both men were well aware of the fact, "and you know she is no match for those forty-four gun monsters the Americans are building. She is to go home, Aubrey, either to be laid up in ordinary or sold off. It is as well that she does not require any further repairs or refitting; you may set sail all the sooner, and be home while you are still high in the Admiralty's favour. No doubt they'll give you a plum to replace her, hey?"

"I hope so, sir; but..."

"No, no, Aubrey; I know what you would say, and it's no use. She's old, and she hasn't half the broadside weight of those new American frigates. It was sure to happen soon enough, and there's no denying it."

These tidings, coming hard upon the news of Stephen's doings, the ominous "recovered", and the denial of the rumours which had caused their estrangement, took Jack flat aback. He felt that he was foundering, seeking desperately for a purchase on the conversation.

He shook his head to clear it, and asked, "When, sir?" He felt dreadfully old and weary; he had been a midshipman in the Surprise, more than twenty years ago.

"Why, at once, as I said. If you only need provisioning, you should be able to set sail before the week is out. And perhaps you will take one last prize, or maybe two, on your way home, hey?"

"Perhaps, sir."

Never apt with words, he now found himself merely mouthing conventional phrases; before he knew it he was taking the Admiral's leave and being ushered abovedecks into the blinding sun.

* * *

There was not a moment to lose. Jack set about provisioning with as much energy as he could muster, despite the dull empty numbness hanging about him like a cloud. Although he did not speak of it, the Surprises were aware, only too obviously aware, that the ship was to be sold out of the service, and they went about their duties with a lack of vigour, a downright sullenness that made their trip to the Aegean seem almost like a golden memory in comparison.

Day by day: water brought aboard, and casks of salt beef, and all the rest; a fair store of paint, too, and even a little gold leaf paid for from his own pocket, for though the _Surprise_ was to be paid off, she must go out in style. Mowett, thank God, had taken responsibility for the priddying and polishing and painting, and Jack found himself with little to do but review paperwork, vast quantities of paperwork brought to him hourly by the purser, the bosun, the gunner, the carpenter -- all to be signed off and settled before they reached England.

It was the afternoon of the third day when Tom Pullings came aboard. He had not been around when the _Surprise_ came in, had been over to Gozo for a few days, and had come to pay his respects as soon as he returned.

"Tom," said Jack, "I am glad to see you. Will you take a glass of grog with me? I have been trying to make this column add up for an hour now, and it's damned thirsty work."

"Gladly, sir," said Captain Pullings, taking the cup Killick offered him. He was full of news, but could not think how to offer it, and so he instead he lifted his cup in a toast. "Our ships at sea," he said, and Jack echoed him.

"Heneage Dundas asked me to send you his regards," said Jack after an awkward pause.

"Oh -- thank you. Were you much in his company in the Aegean?"

"We dined together frequently. I believe you know his premiere -- Hallett, his name was."

"Yes, we served together as mids, before the _Sophie_."

An awkward pause, lengthening almost beyond endurance; the faint thump and mutter of Killick in the next cabin, and at a greater distance, the shouting of orders and imprecations as the new spars were swung across from the dockyard's tender.

"Sir --" said Pullings, at last, with the air of one about to perform an unpleasant duty. "Sir, I feel I ought to acquaint you with -- that is to say, I thought you might like to know --" Jack had flushed dark red, and then suddenly paled, and now was red again, as Tom tried to express himself. "Oh, sir! It's only -- well, I expect you're still mad as hellfire about it, even though it was all a sham, but I did think perhaps you might want to know what had happened. I was there," he said, apologetically.

"Where?" said Jack, looking up at him sharply.

"Why, outside the town; the flat field just beyond the Porta San Giorgio." Jack's face was blank, and Tom pushed on. "He came and asked me to act for him, and I went round straight away, and -- oh, sir! Killick!" he called, as Jack turned a deathly grey in colour. "Killick, there you are. More grog, if you please, and be quick. Sir, sir," he added, as earnestly as he could, "Doctor Maturin is quite well, that is to say -- he is alive."

"Thankee, Killick," said Jack, taking a grateful draught of grog, not noticing the look of intense interest on his steward's face, nor caring that he remained in the cabin, edging slowly towards the door, but loathe to leave before he had heard all he might. Jack's head spun. Alive -- quite well -- but he had fought a duel, that much was clear, and the Admiral's comment, _recovered_, came back to him all of a sudden.

"Tom, tell me: was he shot, was he much hurt? And for God's sake, where is he now?" Not in Valletta; he was sure he would have heard something before now; but no, he reflected, with the _Surprise_ in its current state, and Jack himself locked up in his cabin, poring over papers, only dining in company when the gunroom invited him out of courtesy -- a sad, silent meal, as the officers would not speak unless he took the lead -- there was no reason he should have heard a thing.

The doctor was shot -- badly wounded, in the chest, but the ball had been extracted -- they had feared for his life, and Tom had sat with him through the night -- a slow recovery, a great deal of pain, a difficult patient -- had been still weak, still perhaps a little feverish, when he had set sail a week ago.

"For Gibraltar, aboard the _Swift_," Tom said. "He said he hoped to get passage to England from there."

Jack leapt from his chair and was out the door of his cabin in a flash. "Mister Mowett," he bellowed, bounding up the companionway to the quarterdeck, where Mowett and the midshipman of the watch stared at him, "How quickly can we be under way?"

* * *

The _Surprise_ had sailed with the first tide, Tom Pullings coming aboard with his dunnage to sail as the captain's guest, and the last of the supplies from the dockyard stowed haphazardly belowdecks, to be sorted out once at sea.

Gibraltar: a week's sailing, with favourable winds. There was no hope, none whatsoever, that they would come up on the _Swift_, but at least, Jack thought, putting his hand to the wooden quarterdeck railing, they might make Gib in time.

The black sullen melancholy had lifted, and the foremast jacks sped aloft to set sail with something almost like pleasure; a nervous, striving pleasure, to be sure, and one that had little patience for the slowest man out on the yard. "Get along, you slab-sided dutch-built bugger," came the cry from the larboard shrouds as one of the topmen missed his footing and faltered, and Jack was not the only one to scratch a stay when he thought nobody was looking.

They were four days out of Malta when Jack, eating a ship's biscuit on the quarterdeck, heard the cry from the foremast.

"Ship ahoy!"

"Where away?"

"Off the starboard bow," came the reply. "Fore and aft rig, sir."

Fore and aft rig; something small, perhaps a merchant, a fisherman, or one of the many small naval vessels that plied these waters. If it were French, he would be obliged to chase it. Grabbing his glass, he raced aloft to take a look. The vessel was sailing on the starboard tack, heading towards Mahon, perhaps. Cutter rigged, and as a gust of wind caught her ensign, he saw that she was sailing under British colours. Just as well, perhaps; a chase would take time.

"Make the private signal," he called down to the quarterdeck.

"Aye aye, sir," replied the signal midshipman, and the flags were run up, but as Jack watched for the reply he saw, instead, the cutter turning to leeward, away from _Surprise_, and making off to the north.

By the time he had returned to the quarterdeck and stated, in a loud clear voice, "Mr. Mowett, we shall make chase," he had quashed the mutinous instinct that had tempted him to let her go. "All hands to make sail," called Mowett, though it was hardly necessary to shout it, as the hands were waiting in readiness.

It was not _Surprise_'s best point of sailing, but she was making a respectable ten knots with topgallants and studdingsails set. The cutter, built to sail close to the wind, was sailing large, and _Surprise_ was gaining.

"Pray God we overhaul her soon," thought Jack, looking over the log board and calculating how far off course they had come. "With any luck we will not have lost more than two hours, three at most."

"Have the gunner ready the bow chasers," he said aloud. Two or three hours: he resented them immensely. With every minute that passed, a ship could be leaving Gibraltar. It was not that he knew what he would say or do when he reached Gibraltar, only that he knew it would be immeasurably easier to do it here in the Mediterranean, where the whole miserable thing had happened, than to carry it home to England. He stared over the rail at the cutter. How many ships could sail in and out of Gibraltar harbour in two or three hours? It was not worth it. Even if the cutter were full of gold, it was not worth it.

Pullings, standing at the utmost edge of the windward side of the quarterdeck, unwilling to trespass on the Captain's solitude, cleared his throat, breaking Jack's reverie.

"It's Davies, sir," Pullings said. "He sailed aboard her in the year four, says he'd know her anyway. The cutter, sir -- it's the _Swift_."

* * *

There had been a gun, Stephen thought; he had heard the sound of it through the haze, and the scurrying of feet abovedecks. All was quiet now, though. He shut his eyes, and gave himself up to darkness.

He could not tell if it was a minute or a day later when he was wakened by a rough hand shaking his shoulder. His eyes focussed slowly on the ugly bestubbled pigtailed creature who had dragged him from his slumber, and it took him a moment of blinking bewilderment to realise it was Killick, and beyond him, at the low door of the cabin, filing every inch of available space -- no, it could only be a spectre, a figment, a product of a mind too far gone in anguish and further addled by the comforting, obliterating opiate that had been his only solace.

He shut his eyes again, feeling hot tears run down his face. A cruel vision, no more.

"Stephen." The voice was tentative, not like Jack at all.

Stephen opened his eyes again. The vision was still there, alone now, standing a little distance away. "Jack?" he asked, his voice querulous and scratchy. "Jack?" he repeated, wonderment now overcoming suspicion.

Jack was with him in less than an instant, clasping his hands. "Oh, thank God, Stephen. Will you forgive me?"

"I should rather ask you for forgiveness, soul."

"Nonsense." Jack's gruffness was unreadable, but still he held Stephen's hands clasped between his own, and Stephen cherished the touch, even as he feared that it would soon be withdrawn.

Jack gazed around the dim cabin, at the beams overhead, at the dampness of the bulkhead, the knots in the rope by which Stephen's cot was suspended, Stephen's shoes sitting atop his sea-chest: in fact, anywhere other that at Stephen. The silence between them stretched out, the muffled voices and thuds of the prize crew taking over the cutter coming only faintly through the deck.

Stephen felt Jack's grasp on his hand shift, and steeled himself for the coming withdrawal, departure, emptiness. But instead of releasing his hands, Jack raised them to his lips. "Stephen," he said, with real feeling in his voice, "I have been perfectly miserable these past weeks."

* * *

A bosun's chair had been swung over the side to lift the doctor aboard, and the crew crowded the deck to welcome him: Surprises with honest pleasure at seeing him safe returned, and the new hands with outright curiosity. The handful who had gone across to the _Swift_ \-- Tom Pullings in command -- looked on from a distance as Stephen was settled into his seat, advised to clap on firmly to the ropes at either side, and lifted aboard.

He was shockingly pale and thin, grimy, and unshaven, though hectic colour flushed his cheeks as finally set foot on _Surprise_'s deck. He held one hand pressed to his stomach, and the other arm was supported by the captain, as if the smallest movement of the ship might send him lurching down a hatchway.

"Welcome aboard, sir," said Mowett with a smile, and from amidst the mass of seamen on the deck came the cry, "Three cheers for Doctor Maturin. Hip, hip, hip!"

"Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!" came the response, and a faint "Huzzah!" echoed from the _Swift_ across the water.

"We shall make sail," said Jack, when the cheering had subsided. "Mr Mowett, set a course for Gibraltar."


End file.
